Troubled Waters (Nancy Drew (All New) Girl Detective Book 23) (10 page)

“Well, don’t just sit there. Read!” George urged.

Bess began turning the pages, scanning each one.

“Hmm. This is just a bunch of notes keeping track of clients and invoices and stuff,” she said.

“Nothing more personal?” I asked.

Bess bit her lip and turned a few more crinkled pages. “More records and figures . . . oh, wait. Here’s something,” she murmured.

She ran her finger along the slanted words in the journal. “‘Showed KD annual report and earnings statement,’” she read. “‘KD disappointed in figures. Warned not to expect bonuses this year. Hardly seems fair after all my hard work.’”

She arched an eyebrow at George and me. “He sounds a little bitter, doesn’t he?” she said. “Who’s KD?”

“Kenneth Davis was the president of the Davis Foundry,” I told her. “He must be KD.”

George nodded, slurping up some shake through her straw. “Does he write anything else?” she asked.

“Let’s see . . .” Bess turned back to the journal and flipped ahead. “He makes a few more comments about not feeling appreciated, but I don’t see . . . oh my gosh, listen to this!”

She jabbed a finger at the middle of a page and read. “‘KD critical of this month’s figures. Hinted sloppy bookkeeping is to blame.’”

“That doesn’t sound fair,” I said, scooping some
ice cream, bananas, and sauce with my spoon. “If the company was doing badly, it wasn’t necessarily Tilden’s fault.”

“According to this, Bernard Tilden agreed with you, Nan,” Bess told me. “He decided to get back at Mr. Davis. He actually stole some things from him!”

I nearly choked on a mouthful of banana split. “Money?” I said after I had managed to swallow. “Say, a half million dollars?”

“There’s nothing about that here,” Bess said, shaking her head. “But he
did
take Mr. Davis’s watch and a box of Cuban cigars. He also took the Davis Foundry seal—sounds like some kind of official stamp for papers and stuff. Here’s what he wrote.” She cleared her throat and then read, “‘KD owes me for all I’ve done. If he can’t show his appreciation, then I’ll simply take what I deserve.’”

“Sounds like he’s getting bolder,” George commented.

“And sneakier. Like maybe he’s planning an even bigger theft,” I added.

Bess kept turning pages, skimming them as she went. After a few moments she looked up with wide eyes. “Bingo,” she said.

She pointed to one of the entries, turning the journal so that George and I could read it:

OVERHEARD KD ON THE PHONE. BANK SENDING ARMORED TRUCK ON FRIDAY FOR $$$ IN THE VAULT. IF ALL GOES AS I PLAN, THE $$$ WILL NEVER MAKE IT TO THE BANK.

“So he
did
plan to steal the money,” George breathed out.

“Oh, he did more than just plan,” Bess told us. “Look!”

She pointed to the next entry, and George and I bent close to read:

MY PLAN WENT LIKE CLOCKWORK. KD CALLS MY WORK SLOPPY, BUT TODAY IT WAS FLAWLESS. BETTER THAN FLAWLESS! THE OLD FOOL DOESN’T EVEN SUSPECT THAT HIS VAULT IS NOW EMPTY—AND THAT ITS CONTENTS ARE RIGHT UNDER HIS NOSE, IN A ROOM LONG FORGOTTEN BY EVERYONE BUT ME. BY THE TIME HE REALIZES THE $$$ IS GONE, I WILL BE FAR AWAY WITH IT.

I turned the page to read on, but it was blank. “That’s it. It’s the last thing he wrote,” I said.

A wild excitement buzzed through me. “Mr. Eldridge told me that Bernard Tilden died in a car
crash before police could arrest him.” I looked across the table at Bess and George. “What if he died
before
he had a chance to get the money out of that long-forgotten room he wrote about?”

“Then the money could still be there!” Bess said.

“Whoever dropped this,” I said, closing the cracked leather cover, “knows all about it. And he’s been tearing up the foundry trying to find the secret room with the money in it!”

“Well, it’s pretty clear who it is, then,” George said. She drained the last of her milk shake, then stared at me over the top of her glass. “Craig Reynolds must be the guy we’re after.”

I
had a tough time sleeping that night. Every time I closed my eyes, I pictured Craig Reynolds staring down the street with Bernard Tilden’s notebook at his feet. Craig
had
to be the person who was going after the money. Still, nagging thoughts pricked me like needles. If Craig was trying to find the hidden money, why would he write slurs against J.C.? Even if he was bitter about J.C.’s success, he wouldn’t want to call attention to himself.

Would he?

And what about Brad and Tanya? I wanted to believe what Tanya had said about her and Brad not doing anything to hurt the foundry, but every time I pictured Brad’s muddy clothes and shoes, I had my doubts. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was missing
something—that some piece of the puzzle just didn’t fit right. . . .

Brinng!

My alarm jolted me from an uneasy sleep. Ugh. Six o’clock already? I thought.

I dragged myself out of bed, barely able to open my eyes. Luckily, we detectives have a secret recipe for shaking off the cobwebs so we can look at a case with fresh eyes. It’s called a shower. Five minutes under the steamy spray, and I felt ready for anything.

“Brad!” I said as I walked into the kitchen in my jeans, T-shirt, and bandanna.

I had gotten so used to his disappearing acts that it was a surprise to see him sitting at the kitchen table. A glass of OJ and a plate of barely touched toast sat in front of him. His hair was tousled, and there were rings under his eyes—as if he hadn’t slept well either.

“I didn’t see you at the Shannons’ party last night,” I said.

Brad just shrugged. “So?” he said, without looking at me.

“I’m surprised that you’re not spending as much time as you can with the Bullets, that’s all,” I told him. “I mean, we’re lucky to have them around, but it seems like you’re
avoiding
hanging around with them—and blowing off work with Helping Homes.”

Brad frowned down at his toast. “Look, I got enough lectures from Coach Stanislaus. I don’t need one from you, too,” he said. “I’m going to the foundry right on time today, so you can back off, okay?”

I poured myself some coffee and leaned against the counter facing Brad. “I know you wouldn’t normally pass up the chance to train with the Bullets,” I tried again.

“Nothing about my life is normal these days, in case you hadn’t noticed,” Brad shot back. “I lost my house, my whole neighborhood is covered with mud. . . . So why don’t you just leave me alone.”

Angry sparks shot from his eyes as he shoved his chair back, stood up, and grabbed his car keys from the counter. He stormed to the back door, and it slammed behind him a moment later.

I stared after him, cradling my mug in my hands. Okay, so I wasn’t going to get any straight answers out of Brad. I hoped to do better with Craig Reynolds. After digging around in my bag for the card Owen Jurgensen had given me, I picked up my phone and called him.

“This is Owen. Talk to me!” his voice came over the line.

I gave him a quick rundown of what had happened the night before. But when I told him that I wanted to follow up on Craig right away, he cut me off.

“I need every volunteer, Nancy,” Owen said sternly. “We’re way behind schedule as it is. I can’t have you traipsing off and missing important work time. Why don’t you wait a few hours? At least until we break for lunch.”

I hesitated, but Owen didn’t give me a chance to say no.

“Look, if Craig Reynolds
is
the guy you’re after,” he said, “he’ll come back to the foundry to look for the money again. You really need to be here so you can keep a lookout in case he tries anything.”

“Okay, okay,” I finally agreed. “I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.”

“Help me with this tape, okay, Nancy?” George said.

I tucked a strand of hair under my Helping Homes hat and turned back to the wall George and I were working on. I had just used a trowel to spread a thin layer of plaster over the seam between two pieces of wallboard. The next step—as Wilson had shown us—was to cover the seam with a wide strip of paper tape. After that we’d smooth over the seam with more plaster, and when the plaster dried, we would sand it. When we were done, the seams would be totally hidden, so that each wall would have a smooth, perfect surface.

That was how it worked in theory, anyway. But I have to admit, I was distracted.

“Um, Nancy? You missed a spot,” George told me. “What’s so interesting outside, anyway?”

“Sorry,” I said, turning away from the window. I scraped more wet plaster from the bottom of the bucket and quickly spread it over the paper tape George had placed on the seam. “I just wanted to make sure the guard is still there.”

“Officer Brandt? He was there the last twenty times you checked,” George teased. “And there haven’t been any attacks on the foundry today.”

I was definitely glad about that, but somehow, I still couldn’t concentrate on what we were doing. “I guess I’m just impatient to find out more about Craig and the money Bernard Tilden stole,” I admitted. I glanced at my watch and sighed. “We’ve got more than an hour to go before we break for lunch. . . .”

The other volunteers on our team were out of sight in other rooms of the apartment, but we could hear them talking and laughing while they worked. George and I were taping seams in the back bedroom of one of the second-floor apartments. From the window, I could see Officer Brandt. He walked along the riverbank, keeping his eyes on the factory,
then turned toward the blue tarp where construction materials were stored. As I watched, a flash of movement beyond the tarp caught my eye. I turned for a closer look—then frowned.

“How come Brad and Tanya are leaving?” I murmured.

“Now? After Owen gave that speech this morning about working together to make up for lost time?” George bent close to the window. We watched as Brad and Tanya walked toward the parking lot from the foundry. Maybe it was my imagination, but I could have sworn I saw Brad look furtively over his shoulder before he got into Tanya’s hatchback.

I dropped my trowel into the empty plaster bucket and jammed the top on. “I know I promised Owen I’d stay here, but someone’s got to follow them.”

“Well, if you’re going, I’m going too,” George said, putting down her roll of paper tape.

J.C., Travis, Cam, and Wilson all looked up as as we hurried through the living room of the apartment. “Everything all right?” Wilson asked.

“Yeah. We just have to, um . . . ,” George began.

“Get more plaster!” I fibbed. “We’ll be back in a minute.” We didn’t bother waiting for an answer, but ran down the hall to the stairs.

“A minute? Something tells me we’ll be gone a
little longer than that,” George said under her breath as we took the stairs two at a time.

I just pushed open the doors and hurried outside. “Come on! We’ve got to catch up to them before they get to River Street.”

We were in luck. We rounded the last curve in the drive in time to see Tanya’s hatchback turn onto River Street.

“She’s going left,” George said.

I let Tanya’s car cruise down the road some before I turned after it. “It looks like they going toward Cedar Plains,” I said.

George nodded, keeping her eyes on the car ahead. “Maybe Brad has to get something at the high school?” she guessed.

But when Tanya reached the turnoff for Cedar Plains High, she drove straight past it. I thought she might stop at the commercial strip in downtown Cedar Plains, but she cruised past the stores and restaurants there, too.

“Weird,” I said, frowning. “Where are they going?”

“Beats me, but check out the roadblocks,” George said. She nodded to our right, at a police barrier blocking a road that dipped down behind the buildings and trees along the main road. The road just beyond was also blocked. And the next one. . . .

“The river’s that way,” I realized. “Those roads are probably closed because of the flooding. I guess the police haven’t let anyone back there yet. It must still be too dangerous.”

“Did anyone tell Brad and Tanya that?” George asked, pointing ahead. “They’re going right past that one!”

Sure enough, I saw that Tanya had turned onto one of the blocked roads. Spinning the wheel of my car, I quickly pulled to the side of the road and stopped a couple dozen feet back. George and I watched as Tanya and Brad got out of the car, grabbed the ends of the police barrier, and moved it to the side of the road.

“Are they crazy? It could be dangerous back there!” I murmured. I bit my lip, frowning, as Tanya and Brad drove past the barrier. “We’d better follow them.”

Putting my foot on the gas pedal, I drove slowly to the road and turned onto it. I pulled my car past the wooden barrier, then stopped so George and I could put it back in place.

“Eeew,”
George said, wrinkling up her nose. A sour, moldy smell was in the air. As we drove farther down the road, I saw what caused it. The floods had left a slimy layer of mud that covered everything—the road, the lawns, garbage cans, patio furniture. . . . Some houses we passed were coated with the greenish
black slime up to the second-floor windows.

Tanya’s car crept along the road ahead of us. The closer we got to the river, the more damage we saw. Trees and telephone poles had been knocked over, and entire houses had collapsed in on themselves.

“Oh, man. Talk about devastation,” George said, covering her nose and mouth. “Being here in the middle of it is a thousand times worse than seeing pictures on the news. I can’t believe—”

“They’re stopping!” I said.

Tanya had pulled her car off the road. I did the same, stopping behind the upturned roots of a fallen maple tree half a block back. As quietly as we could, George and I got out. We could hear the rushing river not far off. For once I was glad for the noise. I was pretty sure Tanya and Brad hadn’t heard us.

“It looks like they’re going to that house,” George whispered, peering around the muddy earth that clung to the roots of the fallen tree.

The building she pointed to was so damaged that you could hardly call it a house anymore. The roof had completely caved in on one side. The walls leaned dangerously inward, and half the windows were broken. Tanya and Brad slipped on the sour-smelling slime as they moved toward the place.