Puzzled, Frank said, “I don’t get it. Why would the center sell its waterfront? And even if you wanted to, isn’t there anything in Parent’s will to stop you?”
“No. The trustees have the power to dispose of assets as they see fit,” Tanya told him. “As for why, that is all too simple. Shorewood badly needs money. The land Cleland wants to buy is enormously valuable.”
“Didn’t you say that giving up that land would harm the center’s program?” Frank asked.
“Yes, very much,” Tanya said. She rotated her chair to face the window. “But if the board has to choose between selling the waterfront and closing the center . . .”
Frank was shocked. “Is the situation really that bad?”
Tanya turned back and met his eyes. “Doug Cleland is right,” she said. “The choices we make in the next week or ten days will determine if Shorewood survives. And if this harassment is not stopped at once, we may not even have a choice.”
Frank’s eyes widened. What Tanya was saying fit perfectly with the deadline Walter Parent had given in his letter. But what was the connection?
“Could Cleland somehow be behind this harassment?” Frank asked. “He may think the more trouble the center is in, the more likely you’ll be forced to accept his offer.”
“The idea occurred to me,” Tanya said. She sounded tired. “So I asked a couple of people who’ve dealt with him. They both say he will gladly take advantage of our problems, but that he is much too concerned about his reputation to get involved in anything shady.”
“Hmm.” Frank was not convinced. He made a mental note to look into the Cleland angle. For now, however, he was nagged by a feeling that he had let some important fact slip by. What was it, though? Frowning, he played back the past few minutes in his mind.
“The center’s lawyer,” he began.
“Roger?” Tanya said. “Yes, what about him?”
“Did you say his name is Mainwaring?” Frank continued. “Any relation to Jack?”
“Why, yes, of course,” Tanya replied, sounding surprised. “He is Jack’s father.”
“That’s quite a coincidence,” Frank observed.
“Not at all,” Tanya said. “We just inaugurated the internship program this year. There hasn’t been time for word about it to spread very far. So naturally most of our interns have some prior connection to Shorewood.”
“The others, too, you mean?” Frank asked. “Wendy?”
“Her mother was one of Walter Parent’s doctors,” Tanya said.
“What about Rahsaan?” Frank continued.
Tanya nodded. “He was encouraged to apply by his biology teacher, who has been helping us design our school outreach program.”
“And Joe and I uncovered Sal’s connection. So the only person here who doesn’t have a link to Parent or the center is Callie,” Frank concluded.
“I suppose you’re right,” Tanya said. “I never thought of it quite that way. But what difference does it make?”
Frank shook his head. “It makes it a lot harder to figure out the prankster’s motive. What if one of the interns is trying to wreck the center? The reason may go deep into the past . . . and not even his or her own past!”
Frank asked Tanya for a list of the trustees. Then he went down the list with her, asking questions about each of the names. He listened for something—anything—that might be a clue to a grudge against the center. Nothing struck him. Finally he went off to look for Joe and Callie.
They were in the dining room having coffee and freshly baked doughnuts. Frank snagged a doughnut off Joe’s plate on his way to the coffee urn.
When he returned, Joe said, “So, a smudge pot is missing from the storage shed. From the marks on the floor, all of them were shifted recently. I’d say someone used the others to top off the tank on the one that had the most oil.”
“No lock on the shed?” Frank mumbled, through a mouthful of doughnut.
Joe shook his head. “There’s a hasp, but no padlock. Just a piece of wood stuck through it to keep the door from swinging open. I asked Carl about it. He told me the area is off-limits to the public, and nothing in the shed is worth stealing. So it’s easier to leave it unlocked. Moral? A five-year-old could have made off with that smudge pot.”
Callie leaned forward. “Okay,” she said. “But what about getting it here? You wouldn’t want anyone to see you. And it’s too big to tuck under your shirt.”
Frank and Joe looked at each other. “Darkness,” Joe said.
“Right,” Frank said. “But you’d have to leave it somewhere between last night and this morning.”
Frank finished his coffee and added, “How ’bout we go hunting for oil stains?”
As they started up the stairs, they met Bruce coming down. He gave them a steely look.
“Don’t you three have anything to do?” he demanded. “I know we had a fire, but we can’t allow that to throw off our whole schedule.”
“Tanya asked us to work on a new project,” Callie said. “We’re gathering notes for a history of Shorewood. Can I talk to you sometime today? I need to ask a bunch of questions about Mr. Parent.”
Bruce glanced at his watch. “I can spare you a quarter hour. Be in my office in five minutes.”
“Thanks,” Callie started to say, but Bruce was already disappearing through the dining-room door.
“Well!” Callie gave a short laugh. “I’d better grab that guy while I have the chance. You’ll have to search for oil stains without me. Oh—don’t forget to check the service stairs. There’s a door to them at the back of the entrance hall.”
“Near where the smudge pot was?” Joe asked.
A startled look crossed Callie’s face. “I didn’t think of that,” she said. “Very near!”
“Let’s try there first,” Frank suggested.
They climbed together to the main floor. Callie pointed out the service door, then went to her appointment with Bruce.
Frank looked around. The smell of smoke still hung in the air. Carl had tried to wash the wall and ceiling, but it was easy to see where the smudge pot had been. The door to the service stairs was just a few feet away, set into the paneling.
How long would it take someone to pop out of the doorway, set down the smudge pot, light it, and vanish again into the wall? Frank wondered. Only a few seconds. Did that explain why the smudge pot had been placed in this particular spot?
Joe pushed open the door. They entered the service area. Beyond the stairs, a narrow hall stretched off in either direction. The plain plaster walls needed a fresh coat of paint.
“If I were the bad guy,” Joe mused, “I don’t think I’d risk leaving the smudge pot in plain sight. Someone might notice it. Worse, they might decide it belonged somewhere else and take it away.”
“Right,” Frank said. “But the biggest danger would be letting someone see you with the gizmo. You’d want to leave it as close as possible to this spot.”
A dozen feet down the corridor was a set of floor-to-ceiling cupboards built into the wall. Frank went to the first one and pulled open the door. It was lined with shelves. They held a variety of cleaning products with old-fashioned labels.
Joe, looking over Frank’s shoulder, said, “That stuff would go for a lot of money at a flea market. It looks like it’s been sitting there since 1900!”
Frank opened the next cupboard. It contained brooms, mops, and brushes. They, too, had an old look to them. The dust on the floor had been disturbed very recently, he noticed. He moved a wide push broom and looked behind it.
“Bingo!” Frank said. A dark circular stain about nine inches across had soaked into the wood floor. He bent down and touched it, then sniffed his fingertip. It smelled of fuel oil, the kind used in smudge pots.
He straightened up. “Okay. So the bad guy—let’s call him or her X—brought the smudge pothere, maybe yesterday evening. This morning, after the seminar, X ducks in here, gets the smudge pot, and sets it off. Does that help us give X a name?�
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“We weren’t there to see who went where, but Callie was around,” Joe reminded him. “According to her, Rahsaan stayed after to talk to the speaker. Jack and Sal went off on their own. So did Wendy. That means those three are still in the running.”
“Rahsaan knows his way around the service halls,” Frank said. “Could he have left the speaker long enough to run over here and set the smoke bomb going?”
“I hope not,” Joe admitted. “It would be a real treat to cross someone off our list of suspects!”
They heard a door slam in the distance, followed by hurrying footsteps. Rahsaan came around a corner. When he saw the Hardys, he stopped short.
“There you are!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing in here? Never mind—I need your help.”
“What’s up?” asked Frank.
“Sal was supposed to lead a group with me in ten minutes,” Rahsaan replied. “About thirty junior-high-school kids. But he’s feeling sick from breathing all that smoke. Will you take over for him?”
“We haven’t—” Joe started to say.
“Don’t worry, I’ll do all the talking,” Rahsaan said. “I just need you to keep the kids from straying off and getting into trouble.”
• • •
The Beech Grove Trail led through an area where the trees were far enough apart to let sunlight reach the forest floor. Rahsaan stopped to point out a patch of fiddlehead ferns.
“These are mature,” he said. “But in the early spring, when they first come up, they’re terrific in salads.”
“Ugh!” a boy in a black T-shirt said. “Eat stuff that grows in the woods? Gross!”
“Yeah, right, Kevin,” another boy said. “I’ll bet you think your food comes from the supermarket.”
“And milk comes from cartons, not cows,” a girl with a brown ponytail added.
Kevin scowled. The rest of the kids laughed.
“That’s okay,” Rahsaan said. “For most of us, our food does come from the supermarket. That’s why a place like Shorewood is so important—to help us get back in touch with nature. Come on, let’s go see the duck pond. Joe, lead on.”
“This way, everybody.” Joe started up the trail. The group was close behind him. About thirty yards along, he noticed something odd ahead. A dead tree slanted across the trail. Its bottom rested on the ground, and its upper part was caught in the branches of another tree.
Joe remembered that lumberjacks called that a hang-up. It was one of the deadliest hazards of the woods. At any moment, with no warning, the branches supporting the dead tree might let it fall.
Joe stretched his arms to either side, blocking the trail. “Hold it, everybody,” he said.
“What’s the matter?” Frank asked, hurrying to Joe’s side. “Oh—I see.”
Kevin, the boy in the black T-shirt, darted past Joe’s arm. “I’m going to get to those ducks first,” he bragged, breaking into a trot.
“Hey, wait!” Joe shouted. “Come back!” He and Frank started after the boy.
Laughing, Kevin ran faster. As he neared the leaning tree trunk, he tripped and fell on his stomach. With horror, Joe saw the trunk start to fall. Kevin was lying stunned, directly in its path.
9 The Million-Dollar Log
* * *
Frank saw the danger instantly. He sprang forward like an Olympic runner pushing off from the starting block. As his powerful legs carried him along the leaf-strewn trail, his brain was doing a series of complex problems in rate, time, and distance. Could he reach Kevin before the tree completed its deadly arc?
Joe was matching him stride for stride. He started to bend forward at the waist and stretch his arms out in front of him. Frank suddenly realized what he meant to do. He was planning to grab Kevin by the legs and tow him out of danger. It might work . . . but the timing was so tight that even a moment’s delay could bring disaster.
For a fraction of a second, Frank considered helping Joe by grabbing one of Kevin’s legs. No—the risk was too great. Instead of helping, he might make Joe’s job harder. There were two ways to save Kevin. Joe wanted to move the boy away from the danger. Frank wanted to move the danger away from the boy.
The instant he made his decision, Frank put it into action. He visualized the tree trunk as an opposing ball carrier nearing the end zone. Tucking his chin against his chest, he dug in his toes and charged forward. His left shoulder struck the tree a solid blow. He kept his feet churning. In his mind he heard his coach yelling, “Through the runner! Tackle through the runner!”
Moments later Frank was sprawled on the ground next to the tree. The force of his attack had made it swivel on its lower end and fall along the trail instead of across it. His shoulder ached. He noticed half a dozen scratches on his arms and hands, but he didn’t feel them . . . yet. He pushed himself up and looked around. Joe was a couple of yards away, helping an unhurt Kevin to his feet.
“I-I-I’m sorry,” the shaken boy stammered. “I didn’t mean . . . I don’t know what happened.”
“I think I do,” Frank muttered under his breath. Aloud, he said, “Rahsaan, why don’t you and the group go ahead? Joe and I will stay here and take care of clearing the trail.”
Rahsaan gave Frank a troubled look, but he took the suggestion. Soon he and the group of kids were on their way.
“Okay, let’s get to work,” Frank said. “Why don’t you check the trail. I’ll concentrate on those branches that were holding up the tree.”
“You don’t think it was an accident,” Joe said.
Frank pointed at the fallen log. “Look—dirt and traces of decay all along one side,” he said. “It was lying on the ground for quite a while. Once they’re down, dead trees don’t get up again unless somebody helps.”
While Joe scanned the trail, Frank leaned back to look up at the place where the dead tree had been. It was easy to find. The bark of the tree that was still standing was deeply scratched just above a broken branch. The only section of the branch that looked strong enough to hold up a log was right next to the trunk.
“The log must have been propped up there,” Frank said to himself. “Then, for some reason, it rolled outward. The branch bent, then broke. The log fell. That’s all clear enough . . . but what made it start to roll, just as Kevin ran under it?”
“Hey, look what I found!” Joe exclaimed. He held up a length of black nylon leader. One end was tied to a wedge-shaped piece of wood. “It feels thicker than what turned up in my room, but no question, it’s the same kind of stuff.”
Together, Frank and Joe traced the path of the thin, strong cord. It had stretched across the trail, hidden by dead leaves. Marks on a stump showed where it had changed direction, up toward the branch Frank had been looking at.
“It was fiendishly simple,” Joe said, shaking his head. “When Kevin tripped on the cord, it pulled out the wedge that was holding the dead tree in place.”
“Yes and no,” Frank replied. “The cord was placed a couple of yards this side of the tree. If whoever tripped it had been walking, the tree would have fallen well ahead of them. They would have had a good scare, that’s all. But Kevin was running. That’s what carried him into the danger zone.”
“You’re saying whoever set the trap didn’t mean to hurt anyone?” Joe asked. “That’s crazy!”
“I’m saying he wasn’t trying to hurt someone,” Frank retorted. “It’s like the smudge pot. He wasn’t trying to burn down the center, just disrupt it. But he was willing to risk a serious fire. Here, he was willing to risk having that log injure someone.”
“Could one person set up this trap?” Joe wondered.
“That’s the next thing we have to find out,” Frank said. He went to the thick end of the log, locked his hands under it, and heaved. Frank was surprised by how easily he lifted the end. The other end, still on the ground, acted as a pivot. Once he had the end at shoulder height, he inched toward the middle, lifting as he went. Soon the thick end was nearly at the level of the broken branch.
“The closer the log gets to being straight up and down, the easier it is to lift,” he told Joe.
“Now we know one person could have set this up,” Joe replied. “Come on. Drop that tree somewhere clear of the trail and let’s head back. It’s time we got answers to some of our questions.”
• • •
At lunch Rahsaan told the other interns how the Hardys had rescued a kid from a falling tree.
“That is so great!” Wendy said. There was a murmur of agreement from the others.
Jack frowned. “This was on Beech Grove?” he asked. “I was up that way yesterday afternoon. I didn’t see any dead trees overhanging the trail.”
“What time were you there?” Joe asked eagerly.
“Oh, four-thirty or five,” Jack replied.
“Maybe you didn’t notice,” Sal suggested. Joe heard doubt and suspicion in his voice.
Apparently Jack did, too. His eyes narrowed. “Listen, you,” he began.
“I’ve got a name,” Sal told him. “And it’s just as good as yours.”
“Hold it, guys,” Rahsaan said. “Take it easy.”
Jack and Sal stared down at their plates. Joe thought they looked like little kids pouting after the teacher corrected them.
Callie, trying to smooth over the awkwardness, said, “We’ve been having more than our share of trouble. Sal, how do you feel now?”
“I’m okay,” he mumbled without looking up.
“I don’t understand what happened to you,” Joe said.
Sal cleared his throat. “When I saw the smoke, I ran to see what was going on,” he said hoarsely. “The next I knew, I was outside. I must have passed out. I guess I’m supersensitive to smoke.”
“Where were you when you first saw the smoke?” Frank asked. “Were you alone at the time?”
Sal’s face hardened. “I was in the hall. And yeah, I was by myself. So what?”
“Somebody put the smudge pot there and got it going,” Frank pointed out. “I thought maybe you noticed someone hanging around.”
A Will to Survive Page 6