Troubled Waters (Nancy Drew (All New) Girl Detective Book 23) (12 page)

And just like that, we were inside.

“Yes!” George whispered. “So, what are we looking for?”

I heard the cleaning woman’s footsteps fade away as I took a quick glance around the room. It was a pretty standard motel layout—bed, TV, desk, closet, minifridge, and bathroom. I headed to the desk first and began opening drawers.

“We’re looking for the framed photos that were taken, for one thing,” I told George. “Or anything else that connects J.C. to the damage at the foundry. A sledgehammer, silver spray paint . . .”

As George slid open the closet door, I bent to look underneath J.C.’s bed. As soon as I lifted the hem of the bedspread, a sour, moldy smell hit my nose.

“Either the River Heights Motor Lodge needs to do a better cleaning job, or something that’s been in the floods is under here,” I murmured.

Pressing the side of my head against the carpet, I spotted some boxlike silhouettes under the bed. I reached for the closest one and pulled out something smooth and wooden.

“It’s one of the missing pictures from the foundry!” I exclaimed. Reaching back underneath the bed, I quickly pulled out two more. “Yup. Here’s the old
building plan and those photos we saw our first day at the foundry, of people working there back in the nineteen fifties.”

“So J.C.
did
steal them!” George said breathlessly. “And that’s not all. Look at these, Nancy!”

I glanced up to see her step away from the closet with a handful of clothes that definitely belonged in the laundry carts outside. In one hand were a pair of jeans and a polo shirt so muddied that we could barely make out the blue color underneath the grime. Hanging from the other hand was a pair of sneakers caked with a familiar, sour-smelling slime.

“He’s definitely been nosing around where the floods were,” George said. “Or tromping through the muddy bank under the window of the foundry, where we saw footprints.”

“There’s something else under here too,” I added. Putting my head to the floor, I reached for the last remaining object under the bed. I nearly gagged when my fingers touched slimy wood. “Ugh!” I said. Still, I made myself hold on to the moldy-smelling thing. I pulled it out into the light, then sat back on my heels to look at it.

“It’s an old cigar box,” I said. “A fancy one, from Cuba.”

George dumped J.C.’s muddy clothes to the floor and bent over the box. “Didn’t Bernard Tilden write
in his journal that he stole Cuban cigars from Mr. Davis?” she asked.

“Mmm. So maybe this is the box they came in, huh?” I said. The box was still damp and was coated with the same moldy slime as J.C.’s clothes. Touching just a corner of the wood, I lifted the lid.

“Oh my gosh!” George said. “We hit the jackpot, Nancy.”

That was for sure. I lifted out a gleaming gold pocket watch and fingered the initials that were etched into the gold cover. “KD,” I said. “Kenneth Davis, the owner of the Davis Foundry. . . . This is the watch Bernard Tilden stole from him!”

I grimaced at a handful of soggy, awful-smelling cigars that filled one side of the box. But the other side, where the watch had been, was filled with old newspaper articles. They were yellowed and damp. But I managed to peel the top article free and spread it out on the carpet.

“It’s from the
River Heights Bugle
on May thirtieth, nineteen fifty-five,” George said, looking down at the weathered newsprint. She pointed at the headline:
THIEF GETS AWAY WITH GOLD.

I had already skimmed the first paragraph, describing the theft of Kenneth Davis’s gold watch by an “unknown intruder.” Leaving the clipping on the carpet, I reached carefully for the next one:
UNEXPLAINED
THEFTS CONTINUE AT DAVIS FOUNDRY
. “This one talks about the stolen cigars and company seal,” I said.

“You mean this?” George leaned over to pick up a heavy metal seal from inside the moldy cigar box. She fingered the raised lettering on the seal. “It’s got a picture of the building with the words ‘Davis Foundry, Incorporated’ around it in a circle.”

“Remember how smug Bernard Tilden sounded in his journal?” I said. “He was definitely proud of getting revenge without Mr. Davis having a clue to what he was up to. I bet Tilden cut out these articles himself as a kind of proof of how clever he was.”

“What a jerk,” George said, shaking her head in disgust. “Is there anything in there that tells where he hid the money?”

I turned back to the box, but—except for the soggy cigars and clippings—we had emptied it.

“What about this?” I said, pulling the framed floor plan of the Davis Foundry closer. That was when I realized that the glass had been removed and that someone had made marks on the plan. “Hey, it looks like J.C. wrote on this.”

George pointed to two circles that had been inked over the plan. “Aren’t those the two hidden rooms that were uncovered?” she asked.

“Yeah. But he’s written some question marks, too,”
I said. “They’re all near where the old offices were. Remember what Tilden wrote in his journal, about hiding the money right under Mr. Davis’s nose?”

George nodded. “Looks like J.C. is still trying to find the hiding place, huh?” she said.

I looked from one scrawled question mark to another. One marked a storage closet. Another marked an employee changing room. A third marked the mail room. “None of these look like a place that would be secret enough to stash a half million dollars in,” I said. “Unless . . .”

“Unless what, Nancy?” George asked, sitting on the edge of J.C.’s bed.

“Well,” I said, staring at the floor plan, “Mr. Eldridge told me the layout of the foundry was altered a few times over the years to suit the company’s changing needs. This plan is pretty old. . . .”

“From nineteen twenty-seven.” George pointed at the date written at the bottom of the plan, then shrugged. “So?”

“Well . . . what if there are other floor plans showing changes made
after
nineteen twenty-seven?” I suggested. Grabbing the framed floor plan, I jumped to my feet. “Come on. We need to make another visit to the Historical Society.”

•   •   •

“I give up,” George said an hour and a half later. “I’ve stared at these building plans for so long, I’m starting to go blind!”

Luther Eldridge had found four different plans to the Davis Foundry besides the one from 1927. Two of the plans were spread out on his desk, and the other two were on the table near the window. We had already gone over three of them, comparing them to the plan with J.C.’s question marks on it. We had found one more hidden space, where an old stack had been walled off when it was replaced with a steel blast furnace. But the old stack was clear across the foundry from Mr. Davis’s office—not exactly right under his nose. So George and I had kept on searching.

“Okay, this is the last one. It’s from nineteen forty,” I said.

My eyes gravitated to the part of the plan that showed the center of the foundry, where Mr. Davis’s second-floor office overlooked the main casting shop below. “Hmm,” I said, looking back and forth between the new plan and the one with J.C.’s marks on it. “Hey, check it out! The new plan shows a slightly bigger casting shop, but the storage closet from the old plan isn’t here at all!” I pointed to the spot on the yellowed plan. “See where Mr. Davis’s office is?”

“Right above it!” George said, sucking in her
breath. “You think part of the old closet got walled off when they expanded the casting shop?”

“Could be,” I said. Taking a pen from Luther’s desk, I circled the question mark J.C. had made next to the storage closet on the floor plan he’d stolen. “One thing’s for sure. If there
is
a secret space there, it’s right under Mr. Davis’s nose . . . just like Tilden wrote in his diary.”

George straightened up away from the table, letting out a whistle. “Shouldn’t we tell Owen about this?”

“Definitely.” I glanced at my watch. “Wow. It’s already after five. The Helping Homes teams have probably quit for the day. Especially if the Bullets are going to have another practice session with Brad’s team tonight.”

Taking my cell phone from my bag, I dialed Owen’s number—then groaned when I heard the recorded message for his voice mail. It seemed like forever before the beep sounded and I could leave a message. “It’s Nancy, Owen,” I said. “Please call me. It’s important.”

All of a sudden my whole body buzzed with a sense of urgency. “We can’t just sit around waiting for him to call,” I said. “We need to try to find that secret room—and the stolen money—before J.C. does!”

As we raced out of the office, I saw Luther Eldridge
playing backgammon with Mr. Fillmore at one of the long library tables. “Find what you were looking for?” Luther asked, glancing up from the board.

“I think so. Thanks, Mr. Eldridge!” I called, waving the copy of the floor plan we’d found in J.C.’s motel room.

“Oh—and, Mr. Fillmore?” George said over her shoulder. “I’m pretty sure Brad will be here with good news about Otis soon.”

Luther and the white-haired man both opened their mouths, but George and I didn’t have time to stop and explain. We were out the door before they could get out a single word. In no time we were back in my car and heading toward River Street.

“Slow down, Nancy!” George said. She shot a sideways glance at me as we screeched around a curve in the road. “Relax. I mean, J.C. can’t be up to anything now. He has a practice session with Brad’s team, remember? Besides, it’s not like J.C. can just waltz into the foundry and bust up more walls—not with a guard on duty at the foundry.”

She was right, but somehow, I still couldn’t relax. “Half a million dollars is a lot of money. Who knows how far J.C. will go to get it?” I said.

As soon as we came out of the trees next to the foundry, my eyes shot to the one car that was parked there.

“Looks like the guard is the only one here,” I said, pulling up next to the police car.

All my senses were on red alert. I was hyperaware of the crashing sounds of the river, the slanting rays of the setting sun on the rocky cliffs, and the crinkling paper of the floor plan in my hand. As we jogged toward the entrance to the foundry, I scanned the building’s outside perimeter and the darkening shadows of the building materials under the blue tarp.

“The guard must be inside,” I said. I pulled on one of the double doors, and as it opened, I called softly, “Hello?”

George and I stood there in the lobby, listening. When there was no answer, I called again, in a louder voice this time. “Hello! Officer Brandt?”

“He probably can’t hear us if he’s off in some corner making rounds of the apartments,” George said with a shrug. “There’s a lot of ground to cover in this place.”

I was already stepping farther into the foundry. As I looked around, I saw that the Helping Homes work teams had accomplished a lot that afternoon. The new walls of the lobby had been covered with Sheetrock and taped and plastered, so they were smooth. Glancing up, I saw that the railing of the second-floor balcony had been put up. I didn’t see any sign of foul play—at least, not yet.

The part of the exposed brick wall where J.C. had
smashed through was just out of sight—I couldn’t see whether it had been repaired yet. But, looking at my copy of the floor plan, I gauged where Mr. Davis’s office had been. “Mr. Davis’s office was up there,” I said, pointing to the brick at the far end of the balcony.

“It looks like the old casting room runs from here halfway down that hallway,” George said. She nodded down the corridor that disappeared out of sight to the left of the new lobby. “The storage room that was partly walled off must be behind the walls of the apartment that’s just below Mr. Davis’s office, right?”

I nodded and checked the floor plan again. “The second one down the hall,” I said. “Let’s go!”

Shoving the floor plan into my bag, we headed for the hall. As soon as we turned in at the second doorway, I got a prickly feeling at the back of my neck. “Uh-oh,” I murmured as my boots scraped against brick dust.

The entryway in front of us opened onto a spacious living room that stretched back to an exposed brick wall. I groaned when I saw the hole that had been smashed through the bricks—and all the reddish brown rubble covering the living room floor.

“Oh my gosh,” George whispered. But instead of heading into the living room, she leaped toward the kitchenette that angled off the foyer. When I followed, I saw Officer Brandt sitting on the floor
with his back against the kitchen wall. His wrists and ankles were bound with wires, and a bandanna was tied over his mouth as a gag.

“Officer Brandt! Are you all right?” I asked, bending down next to him.

Officer Brandt grunted, his eyes shifting wildly.

“What is it?” George asked, tugging at the bandanna over his mouth.

The officer strained against his binds more urgently. As soon as George pulled the gag free of his mouth, he rasped out, “Behind you!”

Even as George and I whirled around, I heard scraping footsteps on the floor behind us. J.C. Valdez was just climbing into the living room through the hole in the bricks. I gasped when I saw the huge sledgehammer he held. He swung it ominously back and forth as he walked toward us.

“Make a single move,” he said, “and I’ll kill you.”

G
eorge and I froze, our eyes on the heavy hammer that swung back and forth, back and forth. Finally, I gulped and shifted my gaze to J.C.

“Congratulations,” I told him. “Looks like you found the forgotten room Bernard Tilden wrote about in his journal.”

“You got
that
right,” J.C. gloated. Then he frowned slightly. “What do
you
know about the journal?” he asked.

“You dropped it at Deirdre’s party, and Nancy found it. We know all about the money Bernard Tilden stole from Mr. Davis,” George said. Her eyes kept flicking curiously toward the hole in the bricks. “So . . . is the money in there? Did you find it?”

J.C. didn’t answer right away but just kept his sledgehammer swinging. At last he gestured toward the hole and said, “See for yourself. Both of you. I want you where I can keep my eye on you.”