Terror at High Tide (2 page)

Frank pulled the balloon from his pocket and handed it to Geovanis. “We wondered if you would mind taking a look at this, Mr. Geovanis. I found it near your house, washed up on the sand. Is there any way you could tell us whether it's really from the
Ebony Pearl?”

“The
Ebony Pearl,
huh?” Geovanis said, peering at the balloon. “If it is real, this would be quite a find.”

Geovanis knitted his brows as he examined the balloon under a magnifying glass. “The rubber is thicker than it is on balloons nowadays,” he told them. “And there are cracks in the rubber which would fit with its being in sea water for so long. I'm quite sure it's authentic.”

Frank noticed a small, sandy-haired man with wire-rimmed glasses standing in the doorway. He was listening to their conversation with a smug expression on his face. How long has that guy been there? Frank wondered. And who is he?

“Could I keep this for the museum?” Geovanis was saying, looking hopefully at Frank.

The sandy-haired man rushed into the room. “Let me see that!” he snapped, grabbing the balloon. He studied it for a moment, then looked up. “You're wrong, Geovanis!” he shouted, throwing the balloon onto the desk. “This balloon was not submerged in water for forty years.
This is a hoax—and you should know better if you value your job.”

The man lifted the harpoon from the desk and waved it angrily, its razor-sharp point glinting in the fluorescent light. Then he stood poised, as if he was going to hurl it like a javelin—right at Mr. Geovanis!

Joe made a lunge for the man, but before he could grab him, the man lowered the harpoon, his arm shaking as he struggled to contain his anger.

“Roberto,” Mr. Geovanis said sternly, his face pale. “You may not like it, but I am your boss now. And if you ever threaten me like that again, I will fire you and then I'll notify the police. Take this as my last warning.”

“I'm sorry,” the man said, placing the harpoon back on its wooden props. He looked awkwardly around at the group. “I won't forget myself like that again. But it's my duty to tell the truth. This balloon is not authentic.”

“You may disagree with me,” Mr. Geovanis
said, “and I'll consider your opinion. But I will draw my own conclusion about the balloon.”

“Consider
my opinion!” the man said hotly. “I'm sick of your condescending attitude! If you claim that this balloon is authentic, I'll deny it publicly—through the newspapers if need be.” He turned on his heel and marched out of the room.

Joe was the first to break the stunned silence. “Who is that guy and what is his problem?” he asked Alicia's father.

“He's the assistant curator here, Roberto Scarlatti,” Mr. Geovanis explained, taking a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his brow. “And he's had a chip on his shoulder about me ever since I was hired.”

“He's jealous of Dad,” Alicia told them. She moved to the desk and gave her father a comforting hug. “And he's made working here a nightmare for him. Scarlatti just couldn't take it that Dad got the job as curator.”

“You see,” Mr. Geovanis went on, looking at Callie and the Hardys, “Roberto's worked at the museum for over fifteen years. He thinks he deserved the promotion, but instead the job went to me, an island newcomer.”

“Why didn't he get the promotion?” Frank asked, his dark eyes looking curious.

“Well,” Mr. Geovanis said slowly, “Roberto's
knowledge of shipping
is
impressive, but as you can see, his personality is explosive. A curator has to be good at public relations and fund-raising. That means knowing how to be friendly and diplomatic. Roberto doesn't exactly fit the job description.”

That's the understatement of the year, Joe thought, exchanging glances with Frank. He could tell that his brother agreed with him that Roberto Scarlatti was one weird dude.

“Roberto is always looking for ways to discredit me,” Mr. Geovanis said, “but he's never had an outburst like this before.” He bit his lip, looking worried. “In any case, I know my job is secure no matter what mischief Roberto cooks up. I've done a lot for the museum in the short time since I've been here—organizing some interesting exhibits and drawing in more people.”

“Is there any chance that Scarlatti could be right about the balloon?” Joe asked.

Mr. Geovanis shrugged. “I've never been wrong so far, but there's always a first time.”

“Why would the balloon wash up now, after forty years under the sea?” Frank asked.

Mr. Geovanis frowned. “I don't know,” he admitted after a pause. “Maybe it had been caught underneath something, and with the shifting of the ocean floor over the years, it was finally dislodged.”

“Callie,” Joe teased, “you've got your hot story
now—the whole island will be interested in a balloon from the
Ebony Pearl.”

“That's exactly what I've been thinking, Joe,” Callie said. “I'm off to the
Island News
right now so I can write up my story before the paper goes to press.” She chuckled. “But I don't think I'll include Mr. Scarlatti's outburst—that's too much excitement, even for me.”

Joe shot Frank a challenging look. “Speaking of excitement, why don't we head back to the beach to ride a few more waves?”

“You guys can borrow my Jeep,” Alicia said, handing Joe the keys. “I'd like to do some shopping in town, and Dad can give me a ride home later.”

Frank and Joe thanked Alicia and said goodbye to Mr. Geovanis. Then Callie, Frank, and Joe headed out the door. “What's your gut feeling about the balloon, Frank?” Joe asked in a low voice as they stepped out of the museum. “Do you think Mr. Geovanis is right about it?”

“Probably,” Frank answered. “He's the expert. Though his own experience with the shipwreck might sway him about the balloon.”

“What do you mean?” Callie asked.

Frank shrugged. “It's just that Mr. Geovanis might
want
the balloon to be real—to connect him again to his father.”

“So he might overlook evidence that the balloon's
not really from the
Ebony Pearl?”
Joe asked.

“Not on purpose,” Frank replied. “I hope Mr. Geovanis is right—I wouldn't want that slime Scarlatti to have the last laugh.”

Joe frowned. “That guy is the human equivalent of Mount Vesuvius. He could erupt at any time. I don't see how Mr. Geovanis can work with him.”

“I wonder what Scarlatti's reaction will be tomorrow after he reads about the balloon in the newspaper,” Callie mused, shooting Frank a wry grin. “I wouldn't want to be within earshot of the guy.”

After firming up plans to meet Callie for breakfast the next morning, Frank and Joe waved goodbye to her and climbed into Alicia's Jeep. Then they headed back to the beach to spend the rest of the afternoon surfing.

•   •   •

“Check out this headline, Joe,” Frank said the next morning as he held up the front page of the
Island News.
He and Joe were standing inside the Hub, a book and newspaper shop on Main Street.

Glancing over Frank's shoulder, Joe read, “ ‘Shipwrecked Balloon Washes Ashore!' I'm impressed. Callie's story is front-page news.”

“The
Ebony Pearl?”
an elderly man in tennis whites said. “What about it?”

“You'll have to buy the
Island News
to find out, Mr. Lewis,” the man behind the counter told him. “But you'd better hurry—I'm running low. The whole town wants to read about it.”

As Mr. Lewis reached behind Joe for a newspaper, Joe shot Frank a wide grin. “How does it feel to be famous, Frank?” he asked in a low voice. “Callie's article mentions you by name. It says, ‘The amazing discovery was made by Frank Hardy of Bayport, New York, at about three o'clock yesterday afternoon.' ”

“Shhh,” Frank said, putting on a pair of sunglasses. “I don't want to be recognized.”

Joe rolled his eyes. “I'll do my best to shield you from the paparazzi.”

After paying for their newspaper, Frank and Joe headed across the street to the Muffin Café, where they were planning to meet Callie for breakfast.

“Hi, guys,” Callie called from the doorway. “I've saved us a table in the back garden,” she said, leading the way through the restaurant.

“Sorry we're late,” Frank said as they sat down at their table. “But we had to stop to buy a copy of the
Island News.
We didn't want to miss the lead story.” He tossed the newspaper onto the table.

Callie's face lit up. “Did you read the story?
What did you think? Does it seem more exciting than the pancake breakfast?”

“Slow down,” Frank said, grinning. “One question at a time. Yes, I read the story. And yes, I think it's great. But no, it's not as exciting as the pancake breakfast.”

Callie laughed, then made a face at Frank. “Give me a break, will you?”

As they looked at their menus, Joe overheard some people at the next table talking about the
Ebony Pearl.
No doubt about it, he thought, Callie's story is the talk of the island.

Joe noticed Roberto Scarlatti sitting alone at a table nearby. He was drinking coffee and reading a copy of the
Island News,
an angry scowl on his face. As Joe nudged Frank and Callie, Scarlatti threw the paper down on an empty chair. “Rubbish,” he muttered in disgust. Then he plunked down some change on his table and got up to leave.

“Mr. Scarlatti,” Joe said, rising quickly from his chair. “I'm Joe Hardy. I met you yesterday at the museum.”

“Yes?” Scarlatti said, looking at Joe coolly. Joe wasn't sure if Scarlatti remembered him.

“I noticed you reading the newspaper, and I wondered what you thought of the lead story,” Joe said.

Scarlatti frowned—like a thundercloud about to explode, Joe thought. He hoped the guy
wouldn't blow his cool right there in the restaurant.

“The article is absurd,” Scarlatti spat out. “It reported what that imbecile George Geovanis said, no questions asked. I'm going to the
Island News
right now to set the record straight. I'll make them publish
my
story tomorrow.”

Onlookers at nearby tables glanced at Scarlatti with curiosity as he stormed out of the café.

“Hmm,” Callie said, her brown eyes looking worried. “I hope I won't have to write up
that
story. It would make a terrific article, but Scarlatti sure has a short fuse. He might blow up during the interview.”

“Let's order,” Frank said, “so we can get going. How about a little kayaking after breakfast, Joe?”

“Sounds good to me,” Joe replied as he studied the menu. “I don't know how you can call this breakfast, though. All I see here is muffins. Where are the steak and eggs? Or at least one measly little hot dog?”

“For breakfast?” Callie said with a smile. “Yuck.” She glanced at her watch. “I've got to be at work soon, but why don't we meet at the Atlantic Café for dinner? There is something on that menu for everyone—even Joe,” she added with a mischievous grin.

•   •   •

At eleven o'clock that evening Frank, Joe, Callie, and Alicia were walking down South Beach Street, eating ice-cream cones. Frank and Joe carried skateboards under their arms, and Callie and Alicia wheeled bicycles.

“Let's see if
you
can skateboard and eat ice cream at the same time,” Joe said.

“Just because you dropped your cone and had to get a new one . . .” Frank said with a chuckle. “But, okay, I'll give it a try.”

Frank put down his board, then pushed off, and zoomed half a block down the street while skillfully maneuvering around a couple of pedestrians. As he flipped to a stop, he took a bite of his cone.

“Dumb luck,” Joe muttered as he caught up with Frank.

Frank, Joe, Callie, and Alicia had eaten a huge seafood dinner and then seen a movie. While they were getting ice cream, Alicia had offered to give them a private tour of the shipping museum as the perfect way to cap off the evening.

Joe wondered why Alicia had been so quiet all evening—not at all like her usual bubbly self. When she and Callie caught up with the Hardys, Joe asked her what was wrong.

“I'm worried about my dad,” Alicia explained. “He's been preoccupied ever since this morning.”

“What happened this morning?” Joe asked.

“That worm Scarlatti wrote a nasty rebuttal to Callie's article,” Alicia said. “He said that Dad was totally uninformed about the balloon. Then he went over to the paper to get them to publish it.”

“I know,” Callie said. “A reporter was working on it for tomorrow's paper.”

Alicia sighed. “Dad's at a dinner party right now for a guy named Harrison Cartwright, who's campaigning to be a selectman of the town. A lot of Dad's friends are there. I hope the party will cheer him up.”

“Selectman? What's that?” Joe asked her, hoping to take Alicia's mind off her worries.

“Nantucket has five of them,” Alicia explained, “and together they function as a sort of mayor. You have to get elected.”

At the museum entrance Alicia took out a key ring from her pocket. She unlocked the door, then stepped inside to punch in the alarm code on a panel. “That's weird,” she said, frowning. “Someone must have forgotten to put on the alarm.”

Frank, Joe, and Callie followed Alicia inside. Suddenly Joe heard footsteps on the mezzanine. “There's someone else here!” he said. “Come on, Frank—let's check it out.”

Joe rushed forward into the dark room, with
Frank right behind. As Joe reached the bottom of the stairway, he could see something on the balcony. Silhouetted in the moonlight, it looked like a monster with all its arms waving.