Terror at High Tide (6 page)

“Gun it, Joe,” Frank said. “He's getting away.”

Joe switched to third gear as the traffic and pedestrians thinned out, and the Jeep roared up the empty road.

“Have we lost him?” Frank asked, leaning forward. He saw a flash of blue heading right as the road forked up ahead. “Joe, go right!”

“I can't—I'm going too fast!” Joe yelled as he sped down the left-hand fork.

“If you turn right at the next street, it will feed into the road you missed,” Alicia said.

Joe slammed on the brakes as much as he dared. With a shower of sand and gravel, he turned the Jeep right.

The buggy was slowly bumping along ahead of them. “This road leads to the Corn Mill two miles down,” Alicia explained.

“Don't get away from me now, buddy,” Joe begged. He had stopped the Jeep for a moment, waiting for some bicyclists to move from the middle of the road. Just then the buggy disappeared around a curve. “Rats!” he exclaimed, punching the steering wheel. Finally the cyclists moved to the side, and Joe drove on.

“Do you see it anywhere?” Joe asked as he rounded a curve.

“Not yet,” Alicia said. Three pairs of eyes scanned the empty road ahead as Joe gunned the accelerator.

“There!” Callie said. “To the right. It's parked
on that little road next to Mehanuck Pond—right by the Corn Mill.”

Joe slowed. Sure enough, the buggy was parked in front of a small pond in the middle of a field.

“Bingo,” Frank said. “We've got the car, but where's the driver?”

“Do you think he went into the Corn Mill?” Callie asked. Joe brought the Jeep to a halt behind the dune buggy, and he and Frank looked across the pond at the windmill, a gray-shingled building that looked to Frank like a pepper shaker. The sails spun around in the breeze.

Joe glanced at a row of bushes next to the parked cars. “He could be anywhere.”

Frank's dark eyes flickered with sudden awareness. Turning to Callie, he said, “Ferrier knew we were headed to the Corn Mill. He was with us on the street when you invited us along.”

“I still don't believe he's involved in this,” she said. “I'm sure Scarlatti's the one.”

“Whoever it is, I wonder what's up his sleeve,” Joe said. “This whole setup strikes me as fishy.”

“Maybe we shouldn't go in,” Alicia said nervously. “I don't want to march into some trap this guy's rigged, like some sort of lamebrain.”

Frank smiled. “Then why don't you stay in the Jeep?” he suggested. “That way we'll have all bases covered.”

“Okay,” Alicia said. She climbed back into the Jeep, then glanced around at the deserted field. “It's kind of creepy out here, too. There's no one else around.”

“Give a shout if you need us,” Joe said. “We'll be right inside.”

Frank, Joe, and Callie strolled around the pond and up to the front door of the mill. Inside, the light was dim, and it took a moment for Frank's eyes to adjust. Narrow rays of sunlight slanted across the rustic wooden interior, highlighting a young man in a blue T-shirt and a Boston Red Sox cap worn backward. The front of his shirt was covered with yellow dust.

“Hi,” he said cheerfully. “My name's Bob. I'm the guide here. Just let me know if you'd like a demonstration.” He pointed to a sack filled with corn kernels.

Frank studied the grindstones. They were circular, about five feet in diameter, and the top stone was attached to a long wooden shaft powered by the sails at the top of the building. A chute led from the bottom stone to a hopper full of corn meal in the cellar below.

“I'd like a demonstration,” Callie said. “And I'd also like to get an idea of the mill's history. I'm writing up a story for the paper.”

“Okay,” Bob said, scooping up some corn in a tin can. “Then let's begin our lesson.”

“Are we the only ones in here?” Joe asked.
“Did anyone else come or go within the last ten minutes?”

“Not a soul,” Bob said. “It's been a quiet day.”

Frank glanced at Joe. “Let's check out the view upstairs,” he suggested, glancing at a flight of stairs winding around the shaft. “You never know what we'll find.”

Bob began pouring corn into a chute that funneled it onto the bottom stone. Using a lever, he lowered the top stone until it ground against the bottom stone. The corn made a crunching sound as the stones ground it.

While Callie listened to Bob, Frank led Joe up the steep, rickety stairway. As they approached the second floor, there was a sudden crack. The step was breaking.

“Joe!” Frank shouted as he fell. He grabbed desperately for something to hold. Fifteen feet below him, the heavy machinery was working away, ready to crush whatever—or whoever—came between the heavy grindstones.

Frank grabbed the broken stair with his left hand. “Joe, help me,” he called. “I'm going to fall.”

As Frank dangled over the grindstones below, Joe grabbed Frank's left forearm, using all his strength to keep his brother from falling.

“I need help,” Joe grunted, his face red. His muscular arms shook with the weight of Frank's body, and beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. Joe shouted for Bob, but the loud noise of the grindstones drowned out his voice.

With Joe holding his left arm, Frank was able to swing his right hand up through the opening and reach for the side of the stair. “I think I can make it,” he gasped. “Pull as hard as you can.”

Joe managed to haul Frank up another two inches. “I've got it,” Frank said as he clutched Joe's arm with his right hand. With Joe's support, Frank was finally able to scramble up through the broken stair.

“That was close,” Joe said, wiping his brow with the back of his hand.

“Too close,” Frank said. “I thought I was going to become a corn muffin.”

“I'm surprised Bob didn't notice. I guess the machinery's too loud. Come on,” Joe said. “Let's check out the stair. Something tells me this isn't a case of dry rot.”

The Hardys inspected the stair, running their fingers over the old wood. “Look at this, Frank,” Joe said, examining the righthand side.

“Wow,” Frank said as Joe pointed out rough jagged marks in the stair close to the wall. Tiny specks of sawdust lay close to the cracks in the wood. “It looks like someone took a saw to this stair but didn't want to be obvious about it.”

“Yeah, someone like the dune buggy driver,” Joe said. “He must have come in here.”

Skipping the broken stair, Joe climbed to the second floor of the mill and looked out the window. “The buggy's gone. And Alicia's not in the Jeep,” he called. “I hope nothing's happened to her.”

Taking the stairs two at a time, Joe rushed down to the first floor. Frank, still feeling wobbly,
followed at a slower pace, his eyes glancing over each nook and shadow of the mill interior. Nothing he saw seemed the least bit suspicious.

Downstairs, the Hardys found both Callie and Alicia listening to Bob.

“Whew,” Joe said, as his eyes met Alicia's. “You're here. I didn't see you in your Jeep, and the dune buggy's gone. Frank and I got worried.”

“I didn't like being out there alone, with that weird buggy parked in front of me,” Alicia said. “So I decided to join Callie.”

“Good move,” Joe said. “And now that we know where you are, I'd like to know where that dune buggy is. Did you hear it drive away?”

“No,” Alicia said, looking puzzled. “We didn't hear or see anything. I didn't even know it was gone until you told us.”

Joe filled everyone in on what had happened to Frank upstairs. Callie and Alicia looked shocked, but Joe thought he detected a hint of guilt flicker through Bob's eyes. Looking straight at him, Joe asked, “Are you sure no one came in here during the ten minutes before we arrived?”

Bob's expression clouded over with worry. “Well,” he mumbled, “to tell you the truth, I can't be absolutely sure. Right before you got here, I left for a couple of minutes to give directions to a cyclist on the main road. I suppose someone could have sneaked in then. No one was
in here, and there's no rule that says I have to be at my post every second.”

“Don't worry about it,” Frank told him. “You were just trying to help. But there must have been some visitors to the mill earlier today. I can't believe we're the first ones.”

Bob looked thoughtful. “As I said, it's been quiet for a Saturday. I guess everyone's at the beach. But there was a group of women about an hour ago.”

“Did they go all the way upstairs?” Joe asked.

“Yes. They wandered around for a while, listened to my talk, and then went upstairs. But there were no accidents,” Bob said.

Frank and Joe thanked Bob for his help. “You'd better get that stair fixed before anyone else goes up there,” Frank added as he and the others headed for the door.

Back at the Jeep Alicia said, “You're right, Frank, to wonder about Jonah Ferrier. He was the only person who knew we were coming to the Corn Mill.”

Frank nodded, but Callie shook her head. “I just don't buy it,” she said. “Mr. Ferrier's a totally harmless guy. I know that from working with him.” She stared at the others. “Am I the only one around here who's sticking up for him?”

“At this stage of the investigation,” Joe said, “we each have to keep an open mind. And you've
got to admit, Callie, that a lot of factors point to Ferrier as the culprit.”

“One thing we can all agree on,” Frank said. “Someone wants us off the case.” He climbed into the backseat of the Jeep and sat next to Callie. “Why don't we find out where Ferrier went for lunch?” he suggested. “If he has an alibi, then we could rule him out.”

“I want to get back home,” Alicia said as she strapped herself into the driver's seat. “If either Dad or the kidnapper calls, I want to be there. If there's still no news, I'm notifying the police.” She thought for a moment. “Let's stop at the inn and I'll pick up my moped. Then you guys can borrow my Jeep to check out Jonah and join me at home later.”

“Good thinking,” Joe said. “Let's get moving.”

•   •   •

Back at the
Island News
Callie introduced Frank and Joe to Jonah Ferrier's secretary, a gray-haired woman with a loud, confident manner. “I'm absolutely certain Jonah had lunch at the Jared Coffin House this afternoon,” she told them. “It's the hotel a few blocks away. Jonah eats in the taproom there every Saturday with Katie Hall, the publisher of the
Island News.
You can always call the maître d' if you don't believe me.”

“Why would he have driven there if it's only a few blocks from here?” Frank asked her.

The secretary frowned. “He sometimes delivers copy to Katie, who doesn't always come in on Saturday. And he gives her stacks of books and magazines to read for the weekend.”

“Do you know where Mr. Ferrier bought his dune buggy?” Joe asked. “It's got an unusual design on the hood.”

“Yes, it certainly does,” she agreed. “I've seen one or two others on the island, but not many. There's a dealer named Freddie Applegate who lives near the airport. He paints Nantucket themes, like whales and lobsters, on motorcycles and dune buggies. That's where Jonah bought his.”

Callie and the Hardys thanked her, then headed downstairs to use Callie's phone. Once he got there, Frank punched in the number of the Jared Coffin House. After a few questions to the maître d', Frank hung up. “Ferrier's there, all right,” he told them with a shrug. “He's been chowing down for the past two hours.”

“See?” Callie said triumphantly. “There's no way Mr. Ferrier could have sabotaged the stair. I knew he was in the clear.”

“Unless he had an accomplice who borrowed the buggy for a few minutes just to lure us to the mill,” Frank pointed out.

Callie rolled her eyes. “Frank Hardy, will you never give up?”

“Nope,” Frank said, grinning. “Not until we
know for sure what's going on. Come on, let's head over to Alicia's.”

“I'd also like to track down Harrison Cartwright,” Joe said. “We should find out what he and Mr. Geovanis were arguing about last night.”

“You guys go on,” Callie said. “I've got to stay here and finish my work for the afternoon.”

After Frank and Joe said goodbye to Callie, they hopped into Alicia's Jeep and headed off toward her house.

On the way through town, Joe took a quick detour and steered the Jeep by the Jared Coffin House. Ferrier's dune buggy was parked outside, with a stack of magazines in the backseat.

“Hmm,” Joe said. “Ferrier's off the hook for the moment, I guess.”

“Unless you go for my accomplice idea,” Frank reminded him.

As Frank and Joe talked, Frank realized that their list of clues and suspects was growing shorter. Roberto Scarlatti was still the most likely suspect, but why would he wreck his own museum? This case needs a break
bad,
Frank thought.

Ten minutes out of town the houses thinned out and grassy dunes spilled down to the ocean. Joe pulled the Jeep into a sandy driveway at the end of a long row of bushes, then headed through a clump of woods before arriving at Geovanis's house.

“Where's Alicia?” Frank asked, staring at the
empty driveway. “Her moped's not here, and we made definite plans to meet.”

“Maybe she's at the police station,” Joe said. “She told us she'd go there if there weren't any messages at the house.” He frowned. “I hope everything's okay.”

“Let's take a look,” Frank said, hopping out of the Jeep and striding up to the front door.

Inside the house Frank and Joe found nothing unusual—just the slight messiness they'd noticed two days earlier. Frank glanced around for notes among the mail strewn on a side table, while Joe pressed the message button on the answering machine by the front window.