Trouble in Paradise

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “The mailman’s already been here,” Mom told us. She dropped a fat envelope on the table. “This came for you, boys. Looks like junk mail, but I didn’t want to throw it out before you saw it.”

  It did look like a piece of junk mail. But on the envelope, it said: YOU HAVE WON A FREE VACATION!

  The magic words! I tore open the envelope before Frank could make a grab for it.

  “‘Congratulations, Frank and Joe Hardy!’” I read out loud. “‘You have been chosen to enjoy a free vacation in that American Paradise—the U.S. Virgin Islands!’”

  “Yeah, like I believe that,” Frank said.

  I ignored him. “It sounds perfect! Can’t you just picture us, partying New Year’s Eve away on the beach? And just think—it wouldn’t cost Mom and Dad a penny!”

  It was only December, but we’d already had enough snow for a whole winter. We’d been skiing and snowboarding until we were sick of it. And now, after our recent brush with death, we needed to rest our tired, sore bodies on a tropical beach. Needed it. Bad!

  “Don’t get too excited,” Frank said. “These junk mail offers are usually scams. They try to get you to buy worthless land, or time-shares, or whatever. You go on this supposedly free vacation, and then they ruin it for you by giving you the hard-sell treatment, nagging and nagging you until you hand over your money.”

  “Okay, but then why send it to us? Why not to Mom and Dad? I mean, they’re the ones with enough money to buy property, not us.”

  Frank’s face went blank. “You’re right, Joe—there’s something funny about this ‘free vacation.’ Someone must have made a mistake. Throw it out.”

  “Oh, no—we’re not turning this down, dude. A vacation’s a vacation!” I grabbed the letter and the pictures of perfect Caribbean beaches that came with it. “Seems like a good offer to me. I say we go!”

  At the bottom of the letter, it said, “To claim your free vacation, call this toll-free number within twenty-four hours!” I went over to the counter, picked up the cordless phone, and started punching in the numbers.

  But I stopped before I finished—because I realized something. The number I was dialing was 1-800-CALL-ATAC!

  “Frank,” I said, “We’ve got to check this out.”

  “Aw, forget it, will you? Like I said, it’s just a piece of junk—throw it out. We don’t want any worthless property.”

  I checked to see whether Mom was listening. She was busy going through some papers from work (she’s Bayport’s head librarian).

  “Frank. Listen to me,” I said softly. “I think we should check this out. Okay?” I showed him the 800 number.

  “Ohhh. Yeah, Joe. Good idea. Let’s call them.”

  “How ’bout we go outside and see what Aunt Trudy’s up to?” I suggested, nodding toward Mom.

  We went outside with the phone and the letter.

  Sure enough, Aunt Trudy was underneath her forest green VW Beetle, working away. Only her legs showed, and she was wearing some funny orthopedic shoes. Playback was perched on the hood of the car, whistling a part of the theme song to that old show Gilligan’s Island. Too much TV.

  Frank and I headed for the backyard. Right now we wanted privacy, not TV music. We sat down on the bench by our back fence.

  “I suppose it could be just a coincidence,” Frank said.

  “Yeah? What are the odds?” I said, punching in the number.

  “Prize redemption center,” a female voice chirped.

  “Hi,” I said. “I’m calling about the, um, free vacation?”

  “What’s the code number on your certificate?” she asked.

  I checked, then read it out to her. “F5XS43R.”

  There was a short pause. “For verification, what is the street number of your residence?”

  “Four five zero.”

  Another short pause. “And could you verify your father’s name?”

  “Fenton Hardy,” I said. Then, for good measure, I added, “I’m Joe.”

  “Wonderful. Mr. Hardy, congratulations. You and your brother will be receiving a free vacation in the American Paradise, the U.S.Virgin Islands, all expenses paid.”

  “Uh, just a second,” I stopped her. “What’s the story here?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You know—what’s up?”

  She giggled. “There’s nothing to buy, sir, if that’s what you mean. This is an entirely free vacation.”

  I got it now—of course, she couldn’t talk about ATAC stuff over the phone.

  “You’ll be receiving all the necessary materials by express delivery, Mr. Hardy.”

  “I see. And when will that be?”

  “Let me check.… The package should be arriving … in approximately ten seconds.”

  “Huh?”

  The phone went dead. At the same time, I heard the rumble of a truck coming down the street. Getting up, I went around the side of the house, with Frank right behind me.

  Sure enough, there was an Express Post truck out front!

  Aunt Trudy was already wiping engine oil off her hands with a rag and demanding that the deliveryman give the package to her.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” he was saying. “This can only be delivered in person to either Frank or Joe Hardy.”

  “Well!” said Aunt Trudy, clearly peeved.

  Playback flew to Trudy’s shoulder and spread his wings wide, trying to scare the poor delivery-man. “Aawwk! Run him through! Avast, me hearties!”

  “Has that thing had its shots?” he asked nervously.

  “‘That thing’ is healthier than you are!” Aunt Trudy snapped.

  “Here, I’ll sign for that,” I said, stepping forward.

  “You Frank Hardy?”

  “Joe.”

  “All right, that’ll do.” He gave me his clipboard to sign.

  “Thanks.”

  He gave Trudy and Playback a look and shook his head. “Boy. Some people.” Then he got back into his truck and drove away.

  “Some people indeed!” Trudy said, still angry. “I’ve never met anyone so rude in my entire life!”

  She stared down at the package in my hand. She was obviously waiting for me to open it in front of her.

  No way was I going to do that. I knew by now what was inside—our next case!

  That’s one thing about the great organization we work for—they give us our assignments in the most surprising ways. It’s fun, but sometimes it’s a pain—like now.

  “Um, Joe,” Frank said, coming to my rescue, “that must be the ‘Grow Your Own Scorpion’ science kit that Chet wanted us to order for him.”

  “The what?” Aunt Trudy screamed. “Get that thing out of here! And don’t you dare bring it in the house, either!”

  I bit my lip, trying hard to keep a straight face.

  But if Aunt Trudy wasn’t going to let us take it inside, how were we going to open the box in peace?

  Luckily, when Aunt Trudy screamed, Playback got spooked. He took off into the air and landed in the high branches of a nearby oak tree. He sat there, screeching for all he was worth, imitating Aunt Trudy. “Get that thing out of here! Aaawwk!”

  Trudy forgot all about the box. “Help! Somebody call the fire department!” she yelled.

  Mom came running out the front door. “Trudy, whatever’s the matter?” she asked.

  Trudy pointed upward, her lips trembling.

  “Aawwk! Call the fire department! Call the fire department!” Playback screamed, mocking her.

  “Now, Trudy,” Mom said, putting a soothing hand on our aunt’s shoulder. “Playback’s a bird. He can fly. I’m sure he’ll come down when he’s ready. We feed him, after all. Steady food source.”

  While Trudy slowly calmed down, Frank and I slipped back into the house with our box.

  We got upstairs to Frank’s room and locked the door behind us. Then we emptied the package’s contents onto the bed.

  “Hmmm …,” Frank said. “Airline tickets to the U.S. Virgin Islands. Hey, they we
ren’t kidding!”

  “You see?” I said, “sometimes junk mail really is worth reading.”

  “And here we have a pair of credit cards.… wow—a one-thousand-dollar credit line …”

  “Excellent! Party time!” I flopped back onto Frank’s bed. “This is going to be a really fun time, I can tell.”

  “And a wad of cash …”

  “Keep going.”

  “Prepaid scooter rental …”

  “Awesome.”

  “Police report …”

  “Aw, you had to go and ruin it.” I made a face and covered my head with Frank’s pillow.

  “Cut it out, Joe. You know you wouldn’t enjoy a vacation unless there was some crime fighting attached to it.”

  The pillow came off my head. “You’re right. What was I thinking? Police report? Fantastic! What else have we got?”

  “Just this DVD. Shall I?”

  “Go ahead.”

  He popped it into the DVD player, and I sat up in bed to watch.

  The kindly, round face of Q, one of the intel guys at ATAC, came onto the screen. Hello, boys, he said, giving us a smile. Welcome to your next case. I think you’re going to like this one.

  His image faded, replaced by an aerial view of the most beautiful tropical island you’d ever want to see.

  This is St. John, Q’s voice went on. It’s part of the U.S. Virgin Islands. It’s only a short ferry ride from busy St. Thomas, but St. John is very different. Most of it is permanently preserved as a national park. The island has only about five thousand permanent residents, and most of them live in the main town, Cruz Bay. There’s only one big luxury hotel—the famous Caneel Bay Resort. You’ll be staying in more humble digs, of course. And we’re not sending you to St. John just for a vacation, I’m afraid. It seems there’s trouble in paradise.

  The screen changed to a picture of a young guy, maybe a little older than me and Frank. He had dark hair, dark eyes, a deep tan, and a bright, perfect smile.

  This is Esteban Calderon. He is a well-known member of the international jet set. More importantly, he is the son of Don Ricardo Calderon, the United Nations ambassador from Santa Cruz. Don Ricardo is a major power at the World Bank.

  Esteban was last seen club-hopping in Cruz Bay on the night of December eighteenth. The following afternoon, his rented Jeep was found abandoned, near the ruins of an old sugar mill on the north coast of the island, at Leinster Bay. Don Ricardo seems to think his son has been kidnapped—but it’s been a week, and there’s been no ransom note.

  “Okay,” Frank said to the screen, “but why send us?”

  You’re probably wondering why I’ve chosen to send you boys, Q said, right on cue (so to speak). It seems Don Ricardo is kicking up quite a fuss. Diplomatically, this is a delicate matter. The local police and the FBI spent a couple of days looking into it, but then we got orders from higher up to back off. It seems the territorial government complained.

  We can understand why they don’t want a bunch of uniformed police or military down there, scaring off all the tourists. But the United States can’t afford to upset the World Bank, or the people of Santa Cruz—one of our major oil suppliers. We need to solve this case. That’s where you boys come in.

  Esteban is twenty-one years old. As teens, you may be able to go unnoticed in places where adult law enforcement can’t.

  “Like all-night reggae beach parties?” I said. “Count us in!”

  You’ll find everything you need in the package, Q went on. Since St. John is part of the United States, you won’t need international cell phones—just bring your own. You have reservations at the Buccaneer’s Lair Hotel, right in the heart of Cruz Bay. You can walk there from the ferry dock. It’s where Esteban was staying when he disappeared.

  “Don’t worry, boss,” Frank said to the screen, “we’ll find this guy for you.”

  That’s about it, boys, Q finished. Good luck, and happy traveling. If you get lucky and wind up the case quickly, you’re, ahem, free to spend the rest of your week on the beach.

  “Cool!” we both said at once.

  Oh—and this disc, as usual, will alter itself in five seconds … four … three … two … one …

  The screen switched to a pattern of onrushing stars, and the pounding reggae music of Insane Generation blasted out of the speakers.

  3.

  Welcome to Paradise

  “You don’t mean to say you’re really planning to go?” Aunt Trudy’s face was a picture of horror. Perched on her shoulder, Playback hopped up and down nervously.

  “Sure we are!” Joe said. “Why not? It’s a holiday week. There’s no school. And besides, it’s not every day you win something really big!”

  “Oh, that’s a bunch of hooey,” she shot back.

  “Hooey! Hooey!” Playback echoed, flapping his wings for emphasis.

  “Don’t you boys know that all these so-called free vacations are really scams? You’ll get down there and find out your hotel’s booked solid—or worse, that it doesn’t even exist. And you think it’s all going to be free? Mark my words, you’ll end up having to pay top dollar for everything!”

  You know, I could have sworn Aunt Trudy was jealous. Luckily, Mom was there to calm her down.

  “Now, Trudy,” she said, in that gentle voice of hers, “I’m sure the boys will be fine. Fenton checked up on the company running the contest, and he seems satisfied they’re legitimate.”

  “Humph,” Trudy replied. “You’ll see, Laura—they’ll wind up getting pressured to buy some falling-apart condo in the middle of a swamp.”

  “We’ve gotta go upstairs and pack now,” I said, giving Aunt Trudy a kiss on the forehead. “Don’t worry, Aunt T—we’ll be fine, you’ll see. We’ll bring you back a souvenir.”

  “If you were my children, I wouldn’t spoil you like this,” she grumbled. “You boys had better stay out of trouble down there, you hear?”

  “We promise,” Joe said quickly. “Right, Frank?”

  “Sure. Come on, Joe, let’s get busy.”

  We climbed the stairs, with Playback shouting, “Hooey! Hooey!” behind us.

  The flight to St. Thomas on December 27th was long, but the plane had video game screens for every seat, so Joe was totally happy.

  Me, I kept busy reading up on St. John. I always like to know something about a place before I go there for the first time.

  “Listen to this, Joe,” I said. “St. John was a favorite hideout of pirates in the late 1500s and 1600s. Sir Francis Drake’s fleet hid at Coral Bay and Leinster Bay, waiting for Spanish treasure ships to come by so they could plunder them. That means the Virgin Islands have some of the best wreck diving in the world—and there’s supposed to be lots of sunken treasure, too! Hey, Joe, are you listening?”

  He was glued to the video screen.

  “Yaa! Take that, freakazoid!” He pressed a button, blasting several space monsters at once. Then he paused his game. “Hmm? Did you say something, Frank?”

  “Never mind,” I said. “Have fun.”

  “Oh. Okay.” He shrugged and went back to his virtual world.

  I could relate. After fighting the Skulls and nearly getting burnt to a crisp—in a church, on Christmas, no less—fighting freakazoids must have felt like a piece of cake!

  I kept reading. Two-thirds of St. John’s land had been bought up by this super-rich guy, Laurance Rockefeller, and given to the National Park Service so it could be preserved forever.

  “One of the best hikes in the national park is the Reef Bay Trail,” my guidebook said. “You start at the top of a mountain and walk downhill all day, past waterfalls and exotic jungle terrain. The trail ends at an isolated beach, where there’s an old abandoned sugar mill from colonial days. There, a boat picks you up and takes you back to town.”

  I circled the page—maybe Joe and I could tear ourselves away from our case long enough to take a little hike.

  We landed on St. Thomas, retrieved our bags, and went outside to find
a taxi. The heat hit us like a slap in the face.

  “Whoa!” Joe said. “Wait a second.”

  He took off his sweatshirt and stuffed it in his backpack. Then we hailed a cab for the ride to the St. John ferry.

  “How far is it?” Joe asked the cabbie.

  “All the way across the island, mon.”

  Our cabbie gave us a gold-toothed smile from behind his mirrored shades and said, “No worries, mon. We gonna get there plenty time. Meanwhile, you sit back and enjoy the view, and let Beanie Man do the drivin’.”

  We followed his advice, basking in the warm Caribbean breeze, perfumed by tropical flowers and diesel exhaust. (Hey, at least it was warm!)

  We passed through Charlotte Amalie, the busy, traffic-choked capital of the U.S. Virgin Islands, with its huge cruise ship docks, old colonial-era houses, and tiny, narrow streets packed with jewelry shops.

  “That be all pirate gold them sellin’, mon,” Beanie Man said, flashing those gold teeth and laughing at his own joke.

  Our cab wound back and forth up hairpin turns, climbing the island’s volcanic hills until we got to the top of a ridge. From there, we got our first look eastward at St. John across the strait.

  Like St. Thomas, it was hilly and forested. Unlike St. Thomas, there were very few houses dotting the hillsides.

  We said good-bye to our smiling cabbie at the ferry dock, making sure to give him a hefty tip for getting us there safely—no easy job when you’re racing down narrow roads dodging cars, scooters, goats, and tourists.

  Joe and I lugged our bags onto the ferry, found a couple of lounge chairs, and settled in for a late afternoon mini-cruise.

  Half an hour later, we pulled into the dock at Cruz Bay, St. John. This would be our home for the next week. Because even if we found Esteban Calderon that very night, we had no intention of heading back north to the cold and snow. Not until we had to for school, anyway—and that wasn’t till after New Year’s Day.

  “Okay,” Joe said as we stepped off the ramp and onto the dock. “Where to now?”

  “To the Buccaneer’s Lair,” I said. “It’s on Lagoon Road. See any signs?”