Terror at High Tide (7 page)

“Weird,” Joe said, cocking his ear toward the machine. “The message tape has played all the way through, so no one can leave a message.”

“That's bad,” Frank said. “The kidnapper or Mr. Geovanis might have thought they'd left a message, but the machine didn't record it.”

Joe glanced out the window, lost in thought. A prickle of fear ran down his spine. He didn't like it that Alicia wasn't here to meet them. Could something have happened to her while she was alone? he wondered.

Just then Joe caught sight of a small rowboat about a hundred feet offshore. Sitting in the middle was a man wearing a huge wide-brimmed straw hat and casting a fishing line.

A gust of wind blew the man's hat off, and as
the man struggled to catch it, Joe saw he was Jonah Ferrier. “Frank, look,” Joe said, pointing out the window. “I wonder if Ferrier could be spying on the house. That stupid hat pulled down low on his face makes him seem pretty suspicious.”

“How did he get here so fast from the Jared Coffin House?” Frank asked.

“I'm going to ask Ferrier a few questions,” Joe said. “Even if I have to swim out to him. Luckily, I put on my bathing suit under my clothes this morning.” He grinned. “Just in case.”

“Not so fast,” Frank said cautiously. “Ferrier may have a weapon or something. Maybe I'd better come, too.”

“Don't worry, Frank. That guy's no match for me. Also, one of us should stay up here in case Alicia comes back.”

Frank nodded. “Okay, but I'll be watching you from here.”

Joe stripped down to his bathing suit, then jogged toward the water. On the beach he noticed a sailboard—nothing more than a surfboard fitted with a sail—propped against a sand dune. Perfect, Joe thought. He hauled it to the water, then guided it beyond the breaking waves.

Though the surf was much calmer today, Joe had to concentrate hard to keep his balance while he climbed aboard. Finally he was up. Grasping the handle on the sail, he steadied the
craft against the brisk wind as he glided out to sea. Squinting against the sunlight and the saltwater spray as he zoomed along, Joe couldn't see Ferrier's boat anywhere.

Suddenly Joe heard a ripping sound. Glancing up, he saw the sail hanging in shreds above his head. Before Joe could react, the sail started to swing around wildly, and he knew he was in big trouble. He clung to the handle, struggling to keep his balance.

Joe held his breath as the sail tipped toward the ocean, smacking him into a wave. As Joe plunged into the water, the current swept the sailboard out of reach.

Joe began to swim for shore, but the current was strong. The harder he swam, the farther away from shore he seemed to go.

Panic welled up inside him. I'm caught in a riptide, he realized—and the fast current is sending me out to sea. I've got to get out of here fast—or I'll drown!

Joe's arms felt like jelly. Everywhere he looked, he saw swells of water that were tossing him around like a cork. He opened his mouth for air, only to gulp down a load of sea water.

Joe tried to remember something he'd heard about riptides—swimming against the current is a losing battle, but swimming across the current might work.

Using the sidestroke, Joe swam across the current. After a few feet the ocean suddenly felt still. The riptide's gone, Joe thought. But I'm still not home free.

Catching sight of the shoreline on the horizon, Joe knew he must be three-quarters of a mile from shore.

A dark speck on the water was weaving toward him from shore. Joe waved wildly, hoping it was Frank. After a moment the speck grew larger, and Joe was able to make out his brother at the rudder of a small sailboat. Yes! Joe thought, letting out a whoop of delight—he'd had a feeling Frank would come to the rescue.

Frank brought the sailboat close to Joe and helped his brother in. Then Frank let out the sail, and the brothers sped back to shore.

“What happened?” Frank asked as he tacked the boat. “I saw you one moment, and you were gone the next.”

Joe told Frank about the torn sailboard and the riptide. “I wonder if Ferrier could have sabotaged the sailboard, then planted himself in that boat to lure you out to sea,” Frank said.

“I don't remember noticing anything wrong with the sail before I started out,” Joe said. “But who knows—it may have been tampered with. Or maybe it was frayed and just tore on its own. I wonder where it went?”

Shielding his eyes with his hand, Joe scanned the water. The ocean glistened with sunlight, and all Joe could see was an expanse of blue-green water. The sailboard was nowhere in sight.

“I guess we'll never know what happened to it,” Joe said. “By the way, did you see where Ferrier went?”

“I saw him row back to the beach in front of
the house next door, while you were busy getting the sailboard through the waves. I'm not sure what he did next, because at that point I was concentrating on you.”

“Good thing,” Joe said, grinning. “Now, where did you get this boat?”

“Luck,” Frank answered. “A couple of kids had just come ashore to swim and have a picnic lunch. Since the surf's pretty calm today, they'd pulled their boat all the way up to shore. I told them you were in trouble and asked if I could borrow the boat for a few minutes.”

As the Hardys approached the beach, Joe noticed a teenage boy and girl sitting on a towel. Frank waved, then carefully guided the boat into the shallow water and pulled up the keel. As the boat touched the sandy bottom, the Hardys hopped out and pulled it ashore.

“Thanks for letting my brother use your boat,” Joe said. “I'd be halfway across the Atlantic by now without it.”

“No problem,” the boy said. “Glad we could help.”

“Did you notice a man coming ashore in a rowboat?” Frank asked her.

“Yes,” the girl said. “He pulled the boat onto the beach, and then he and a blond woman carried it up to the house next door. A few minutes later we heard a car drive away from
there.” She pointed to a gray shingled cottage down the beach, about a hundred yards from the Geovanises' house.

“We'll have to ask Alicia who lives there,” Frank told Joe. Turning to the teenagers, he said, “Thanks a lot for your help.” Then he and Joe walked up the path to the Geovanis house.

Once there, Joe took a quick shower and changed into dry clothes. Since Alicia still wasn't home, Frank and Joe decided it was time to question Harrison Cartwright. After looking up his address in the phone book, they walked out to the driveway.

As Joe climbed into the Jeep next to Frank, he said, “If Alicia's not here after we finish with Cartwright, let's go to the police.”

“Good idea,” Frank said, and turned on the motor. Suddenly he snapped to attention. “Wait, Joe. I hear something.”

A crunching sound of wheels on gravel and sand came from around a bend in the driveway. After a moment, Alicia appeared on her moped.

“It's about time you showed up,” Joe said as she pulled up. “We were beginning to worry about you.”

“Did you go to the police?” Frank asked.

“I can't talk, guys,” Alicia said abruptly. She climbed off her moped, flicking down the kick-stand with her foot. “I'm too busy now.”

“You're
what?”
Joe said. He couldn't believe his ears. “How can you be too busy to find your father?”

Alicia walked over to the driver's side of the Jeep. “You guys need to leave,” she said.

Frank looked at Alicia, his gaze unwavering. He could see the dark circles that rimmed her eyes. “Not before we find out where you were. We were supposed to meet here after you checked the house for messages.”

Alicia's eyes flickered with annoyance. “It's none of your business where I've been,” she snapped. “But if you must know, I went grocery shopping. Look!” Opening her backpack, she took out a box of spaghetti and held it out to Frank. “I remembered our meeting, but I had to go to the store first. I'm just too tired to talk now.” She put the spaghetti back in her pack and started to walk away.

“Wait!” Joe shouted. He jumped out of the Jeep and caught up to her, then quickly told her about Ferrier and the torn sailboard. “Do you know if the sail was frayed?” he asked.

Alicia glanced down uncomfortably, tracing a pattern in the sand driveway with her sneaker. “Don't ask me,” she finally said. “It was an old sail, so it must have just torn.”

“Do you know the name of the blond woman next door?” he pressed.

“That's Katie Hall, the publisher of the
Island News,”
Alicia answered.

“The person Ferrier was having lunch with,” Joe said. “Are they friends?”

Alicia shrugged. “I see him over there sometimes on Saturdays dropping off magazines and stuff. That's probably why he was there. And now, I've really got to go.”

“Alicia,” Frank said, leaning out of the driver's seat. “Before you go, tell us whether you've heard from the kidnapper.”

Alicia's head shot up, then she instantly looked away. “Please go away and leave me alone,” she said icily.

“No,” Joe said. “Your father's missing and you might be in danger yourself,” he said. “Besides, we're supposed to be helping you, not deserting you. Come with us while we talk to Harrison Cartwright. We won't make you answer any more questions—Scout's honor,” he added, flashing a lopsided grin.

Alicia's face turned red. “Please stop your investigation,” she said. “The police are taking care of everything. I'm sure my father's fine.”

“How do you know that?” Joe demanded. “And when did you go to the police?”

Instead of answering, Alicia turned and marched up the walkway to her front door. Looking back with a scowl, she walked inside and slammed the door behind her.

Frank and Joe exchanged glances. “Weird,” Joe muttered as he climbed into the Jeep beside Frank.

“You're not kidding,” Frank said, shaking his head. “But she didn't ask for her Jeep back. We can still investigate Cartwright.”

“Yeah,” Joe said. “But I'd like to know what's going on with Alicia. It's as if she's a completely different person.”

The Hardys drove in silence to Harrison Cartwright's house, about fifteen minutes outside of town near a stretch of moors and a cranberry bog. The sun was setting, and patches of mist rose from the open fields of marshland and scrub.

A tall row of trees hid Cartwright's house from the road. As Frank scouted around for the driveway, a man wearing a navy jersey stepped out from the property and peered inside a mailbox.

“Hello,” Frank said, stopping the Jeep. “We're looking for Harrison Cartwright.”

The man crossed the road to their side. “Well, you've found him.” Cartwright gazed at Frank from under the peak of a white yachting hat, his gray eyes twinkling. Cartwright's skin was weathered from the sun, and his hair at the edge of his hat was white, but he looked strong and healthy, his posture ramrod straight. As Cartwright shook hands with Frank, Frank noticed he was missing part of his little finger. “How can I help you boys?” Cartwright asked, smiling.

Frank told Cartwright that Geovanis had been missing since the dinner party the night before. “We wondered what you and Mr. Geovanis were talking about last night at the party,” Frank said. “And did Mr. Geovanis mention anything about going anywhere after the party?”

Cartwright shook his head. “He didn't tell me about any plans. He was trying to get me to contribute money to the shipping museum, and I refused to pledge an exact amount. I told him it wasn't the time or place to fund-raise, and George got angry. I didn't see him after that conversation.”

“What time was that?” Joe asked.

Cartwright furrowed his brow. “Oh, I'd say about eight—just after dinner.”

“Thank you very much, sir,” Frank said.

“You're welcome, and I hope you find Geovanis soon.” Cartwright waved as Frank and Joe drove off.

“Now what?” Joe asked. “We didn't learn a thing from him. The trail's gone cold.”

“Not really,” Frank said. “We still need to track down our main suspect—Scarlatti. And also check out the museum again—see if we can find a link between the vandalism and Mr. Geovanis going AWOL.”

About thirty yards past Cartwright's mailbox, the Hardys heard a pop, then a loud slap of rubber. The Jeep sagged to one side. “Oh, no,”
Frank groaned. “A flat.” He brought the Jeep to a halt by the edge of a cranberry bog, and the Hardys got out.

As Joe inspected the tire, Frank glanced over at the cranberry bog. In the misty dusk he thought he saw something move. “Joe, look,” he whispered.

As Joe snapped to attention, Frank made out a hunched-over figure in a dark shirt darting down a path through the bog about a hundred feet away. “I wonder if that's Cartwright,” Frank said. “This guy's wearing a dark shirt, too, but I can't see much else in the mist. Why is he all hunched over—like he's sneaking somewhere?”

“There's only one way to find out,” Joe said. “Let's follow him.”

Frank and Joe jogged onto a narrow path that bordered the bog. Thick rows of cranberry bushes choked the swampy water, and the mist made the going treacherous. Frank kept his eyes on the ghostlike figure ahead, weaving its way through the fog.

Frank heard a sudden splash behind him, and he turned around to see his brother knee-deep in the bog. As Joe scrambled back to the path, his muddy sneakers made a squeaking sound. “I'm okay—let's just move,” he said.

The Hardys continued down the path, but the figure was gone. “We've lost him,” Frank said. “And the mist is getting thicker. Maybe we
should come back tomorrow when we can see what's out here.”

“Hey, Frank, what's this?” Joe bent down and picked up a small round object. Turning it over in his fingers, he said, “It's a gold cuff link shaped like an anchor, with the letters
EP
on it. I wonder if it belongs to the guy we were chasing.”