A Nancy Drew Christmas

by Carolyn Keene

  Steak Out

  HOT-PEPPER HAND TOWELS WERE one thing, but someone breaking into an owner’s suite on the night of the lodge’s grand reopening? Now that was a real case.

  The flashlight did a full sweep of the suite before retreating to the back bedroom and vanishing. I whipped the binoculars back over to the reading room door, where I’d last seen Grant step out of view. I needed to tell him!

  I started to wheel myself to the door of my suite, when I caught sight of the clock.

  Slow your roll, Nancy, I told myself. I’d seen what I’d seen, but I had to be sure it meant what I thought before I announced to the lodge’s co-owner that I’d been spying into his room with binoculars at one thirty in the morning!

  I went back over it in my head to make sure I wasn’t jumping to cabin-fever-induced conclusions. Could there be another logical explanation for the flashlight appearing in Grant’s suite? He wasn’t traveling with anyone, and I’d seen him leave his suite and go to the reading room, so it had to be an intruder, right? I had nodded off for a minute, but surely that wouldn’t have been enough time for Grant to return to the suite unseen before the flashlight appeared. Unless . . .

  Could I have nodded off for longer than I thought without realizing I’d been asleep? I was pretty tired, and I hadn’t looked at the clock until just now.

  But even if I had, why would Grant be looking around his own suite with a flashlight instead of just turning on the lights? I’d investigated enough bizarre cases to know people do all kinds of unexpected things, but it seemed unlikely, and if there really had been a break-in, Grant and Archie needed to know. I just didn’t want to announce to the world that I’d been peeping into rooms unless I knew for sure. I’d look pretty silly if I was wrong. And what if they took my binocular privileges away? I wouldn’t have anything to keep me distracted while I was stuck in my room for the next six days recuperating!

  The best way to avoid jumping to conclusions on a case is to get proof. All I needed to do was watch the reading room until Grant reemerged to confirm that he was still there and it really had been someone else in his suite.

  I shook the cobwebs away, determined to stay awake watching the reading room all night if I had to.

  So much for that plan, I thought as I woke up in my wheelchair to the sunrise coming in through my window the next morning. I had to make up for lost time. Plan B was to seek out Grant and . . . I wasn’t sure about the “and” part. I still wasn’t 100 percent sure he hadn’t returned to his room before I saw the flashlight, and I couldn’t confront him directly without letting him know I’d been snooping. Okay, so maybe Plan B wasn’t the most well-thought-out plan ever. I’d just have to improvise.

  As I picked up my phone, two message alerts caught my eye, and neither of them were good. The first one was from George:

  CHECK UR IG. DECIDED 2 TAKE THE LODGE’S TEMPERATURE 4 U & C WHAT PEOPLE R SAYING . . . THE CASE OF THE HOT PEPPER HAND TOWELS IS A HOT TOPIC!

  “Ugh,” I groaned as I hit the Instagram icon. Sure enough, the first post in my feed was another selfie from Carol’s handle @TravelBugCarol, only this one showed her scowling with her full-on horror-movie-looking swollen, bloodshot eyes from rubbing them after using the peppered towels at dinner. The caption wasn’t any better: When a cranky celebrity chef accidentally maces her guests at a banquet catered by her “fancy” new ski resort restaurant. I cannot wait to write this article for you guys! #FineDiningFail #TravelDisaster.

  The post already had hundreds of likes. I was pretty sure this wasn’t the kind of press Archie had imagined when he invited a writer from Travel Bug to profile the lodge.

  The second text message was from my dad.

  HUGE WINTER STORM IN RIVER HEIGHTS, FLIGHTS GROUNDED FOR AT LEAST A COUPLE OF DAYS. :( I’M SO SORRY, SWEETHEART. CALL ME WHEN YOU GET UP.

  Double ugh. We’d talked yesterday after my accident, and he was supposed to be on the first flight out this morning to keep me company while I recuperated from my broken leg. So much for that plan too.

  I put the bad news out of my head. I had a break-in to investigate! Not to mention the hot-pepper towel sabotage.

  I headed for the concierge’s desk, figuring that was a good place to start looking. I didn’t have to look far. Grant was leaning over the desk, giving hurried instructions to the man behind the desk. I did my best stealth-mode approach to see if I could overhear what he was saying.

  “. . . I don’t know how, just get maintenance up there now to change the locks anyway. My nerves are rattled enough already without having to worry about—”

  CREAK, said my wheelchair. I put on my most innocent grin as Grant and the concierge turned around.

  “Ah, good morning, Miss Drew!” the concierge announced. “It’s wonderful to see you up and about.”

  My initial surprise that someone I’d never met before knew me wore off when I realized I wasn’t particularly hard to spot.

  “I’m Henry,” he continued. “Mr. Leach told us all about your unfortunate accident. If there’s anything you need, don’t hesitate to let me know.”

  “Thanks, Henry,” I replied. I turned to Grant. “Good morning, Mr. Alexander. We haven’t met yet, but I’m Nancy. I did some investigation work on a case my dad handled for your firm. Archie flew me out here.”

  I was pretty sure my wheelchair’s squeak had interrupted him telling Henry that someone had been in his suite, which gave me the perfect opportunity to confirm what I’d seen and launch my investigation into the break-in.

  “Oh, yeah, Archie told me about that. Thanks,” he said, sounding like his attention was still somewhere else. “Sorry about the accident. If you need anything, just ask Henry.”

  I could tell he was eager to walk away, but I didn’t give him a chance. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I overheard you say something about the lock on your door. I woke up last night and saw a suspicious light in one of the suites across from mine, so if someone was in your room, I may have seen—”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he interrupted. “My lock is fine.”

  “Oh, well, I thought I might have seen a flashlight in your room last night while you were out—” I began, but Grant didn’t give me a chance to finish.

  “You must be mistaken. I was in my room all night.” He shot Henry an inscrutable look. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a call to make.”

  He retreated hastily, leaving Henry standing there uncomfortably with a forced smile on his face. I’d just overheard Grant telling Henry to change the lock on his door. Grant was lying, but why?

  “Is there, uh, anything I can do for you, Miss Drew?” Henry asked, looking at his feet.

  Henry had a kind, open face, so I decided to trust him. Sometimes you just have to go with your instincts.

  “Archie and Mr. Alexander told you to give me anything I need, right?” I asked.

  He nodded eagerly. “Just say the word, Miss Drew.”

  “And Archie told you I was a detective, right?” I followed up.

  “Certainly,” he replied with a smile. “We’ve all been excited to meet you, especially me. I just love mystery novels, and I’ve never had a chance to meet a real live PI.”

  “Well, this live PI needs a CI she can trust,” I said. “You know what a CI is?”

  “A confidential informant!” he informed me excitedly, then looked around and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Confidential informant.”

  I grinned. I had the feeling this was going to be the start of a beautiful friendship.

  “Was Mr. Alexander asking you about the lock on his door just now?” I asked.

  “It’s not just Mr. Alexander, either,” Henry confidentially informed me a minute later after making me promise to keep it a secret and to help the lodge get to the bottom of whatever was going on. “You can’t tell anyone I told you, but there were a few break-ins reported during the renovation and the soft launch while we were preparing to open. And not just the guest rooms; som
eone’s been rummaging through storage rooms and supply closets too.”

  “Someone’s been breaking into rooms and stealing things, and no one’s reported it to the police?” I asked.

  “That’s the thing: as far as anyone can tell, nothing’s been stolen,” he said. “Mr. Alexander had the expensive digital SLR camera he uses to take nature photos around the grounds sitting out on the dresser, and whoever was in his room left it right where it was.”

  No-theft break-ins? I hadn’t been expecting that.

  “How did he know someone had been in his suite if nothing was taken?” I asked. “Was the lock tampered with?”

  “Nope, it was locked just like he left it. He said the bed had been moved a few inches and someone had shuffled the clothes in his closet around,” Henry said, lowering his voice even more. “Mr. Alexander is very tidy.”

  “Still, why not report it to the authorities so they can investigate?” I’d asked the question but realized I knew the answer before Henry gave it.

  “But what if the guests find out?” He gasped. “Or Carol Fremont? It would be all over the Internet, and people wouldn’t want to come!”

  I nodded. Break-ins definitely weren’t the kind of publicity a resort wanted, especially one with so much riding on it. And after the Instagram photo Carol had posted burning Chef K, I didn’t want to see what she’d have to say about a bunch of break-ins. No wonder Grant denied that his room had been broken into.

  “Some of us have been working here for years, and Mr. Leach gave us all a nice raise, too,” Henry shared. “No one wants to see the lodge do poorly. We’d lose our jobs, and besides, this is like a second home for many of us. If we didn’t work here, we’d have to pay for lift tickets!”

  I laughed, but Henry was serious.

  “Skiing is an expensive hobby,” I conceded.

  “What’s there to report anyway? Sure, there’s been a little funny business, but nothing’s been taken,” Henry rationalized. “No harm, no foul, right?”

  “Maybe, but whoever is breaking into those rooms is after something,” I told him. “And B and E is rarely done with innocent intent.”

  “Ooh, what do you think their motive is?” he asked excitedly.

  “I don’t know, Henry, but I plan to find out,” I said.

  I’d had the strange feeling we were being watched during our conversation, and I suddenly realized why.

  “Who are they?” I asked, pointing to two huge oil portraits hanging on a nearby wall.

  One was of an older man in a buffalo-plaid shirt, portly, bald, and grinning. The other was of a woman roughly the same age, but with much bolder taste. And by bold, I don’t mean fashion forward. She had what’s best described as a beehive hairdo, ruby-red lipstick, and the brightest blue eye shadow imaginable painted in half-moons all the way from her upper lashes to her eyebrows. Oh, and she was wearing a Hawaiian shirt.

  “That’s Mr. and Mrs. Bosley,” Henry replied fondly. “Mrs. Bos had them commission the portraits as part of the sale agreement.”

  Now that he’d said it, I could see a resemblance between buffalo-plaid-clad Mr. Bosley and his son, Dino. Mrs. Bosley, though, she looked like she was one of a kind.

  “She sure is, uh, flamboyant,” I suggested.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Bos technically ran the place together, but everyone knew Mrs. Bos was the one calling all the shots,” he said.

  “What’s with her earrings?” I asked, noticing that her dangling gold earrings were in the shape of a pickax in one ear and what appeared to be a mining pan in the other.

  “Mrs. Bos was fond of telling guests about legends from the lodge’s gold-mining days back in the 1800s,” Henry recalled. “The Montana Gold Rush never amounted to much around here historically, but her grandparents told her the original owners secretly struck it rich and stashed a fortune in gold somewhere on the grounds.”

  Henry walked to another wall, pulled down a small frame, and brought it over.

  “Her family owned the Grand Sky for the better part of the last century, and no one ever found so much as a fleck of gold dust, but she never tired of talking about it,” he said. “She even made it a part of the lodge’s marketing campaign when she and Mr. Bos took over running it in the 1970s.”

  Inside the frame was a pamphlet with a black-and-white photo of the lodge and the slogan, Strike It Rich at the Grand Sky Lodge.

  He looked back at Mrs. Bosley’s portrait. “She insisted the artist paint her portrait in the shirt she said she was going to wear on her first day of retirement in the Caribbean. She said if she couldn’t strike gold, she’d strike gold sand beaches instead.”

  He picked up the framed pamphlet to hang it back up, then stopped and turned around. “Actually, it’s not entirely true that they didn’t find anything. Workers did discover a hidden chamber when they tore down an old wall under the kitchen a few months ago during the renovation.”

  I leaned forward, anxious to hear more. “What was in it?”

  “Just an empty, dusty room with an earth floor and log walls,” Henry said.

  “Well, that’s kind of anticlimactic,” I said, deflating a little.

  “The contractor said it isn’t unusual to find old sealed-off rooms in big historic lodges like this, but the discovery of a secret room sure gave new life to the legend for Mrs. Bos,” Henry said. “She stuck around for a few weeks after the sale to see the renovation, so she was here when they found it, and she was thrilled, even if they didn’t find gold.”

  I’d definitely found my mystery, and it wasn’t kooky Mrs. Bosley and her pet legend about hidden gold. Henry did more than just confirm that Grant’s room had been broken into; he’d tipped me off to multiple break-ins the lodge had been keeping under wraps. I was beginning to think the hot-pepper towels were connected too. No one was getting robbed and no one was getting seriously hurt, but the lodge certainly wasn’t looking good. Could this all be about bad publicity?

  I was contemplating who to talk to next when my next interview came to me. Or more accurately, she walked in my direction.

  Chef K burst through the doors of the closed Mountain to Table restaurant on the other side of the lobby and stormed toward Henry. She was gripping a knife in one hand and a fistful of withered plants in the other.

  “Someone is going to pay for this!” she bellowed.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Herbicidal Maniac

  “OH BOY . . . ,” HENRY MUTTERED AS the lodge’s early risers turned to gawk at the chef stomping across the lobby toward the concierge desk.

  “How c-c-can I help you, ch-ch-chef?” Henry stammered, looking like he’d rather run the other way.

  “How am I supposed to serve poached rainbow trout with dill tzatziki and chicory flower garnish without dill and chicory flowers?!” she hollered, waving the blackened, withered plants in Henry’s face.

  “Um, that’s a, uh, good question,” Henry fumbled. “I’m not sure I’m qualified to answer—”

  “Get Archie down here now,” she demanded. “One of your people went into my greenhouse, turned off the heat lamps, and left the door open, and I want to know who.”

  Henry quickly picked up the phone and rang Archie. “Um, good morning, sir. Chef Crockett would like to see you. . . .”

  Chef K leaned over the desk and yelled into the phone. “Half my herbs and seedlings are dead, which is exactly what the person who did this is going to be when I get my hands on them.”

  “Um, no, sir, someone seems to have gone into Chef Crockett’s greenhouse without permission,” Henry explained over the phone. “Yes, sir, thank you.”

  Henry hung up, and Archie appeared two minutes later. Archie’s worry lines may have looked about ready to shriek, but he remained impressively calm as Chef K continued to rage, seemingly oblivious to me or the other staring guests.

  “Are you sure someone from your staff didn’t accidentally leave it open?” Archie asked when she finally took a breath.

  “My people kno
w what they’re doing. I’ve been training most of them for years, and only a couple of them are allowed anywhere near my greenhouse,” she said, looking mournfully at the dead plants in her hand. “I checked on the plants last night and closed up myself.”

  “I’m sorry to interrupt,” I said, cautiously wheeling closer. “But I thought the lodge kept on a lot of the old staff.”

  Chef K snorted. “Ha! They can hire whoever they want to work in their part of the lodge, but no one sets foot in my kitchen who isn’t handpicked by me, and my people know better than to mess with my babies.” She shook the dead plants at Archie. “Which means it was one of yours.”

  “We’re all on the same team here,” Archie pleaded.

  “Teammates don’t murder people’s plants!” she yelled. “This was probably the same person who stole my peppers and pulled that prank last night. I swear, if someone is trying to sabotage my restaurant—”

  “Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Archie interrupted. “I’m sure there’s an innocent explanation for all of this.”

  “You know what was innocent? My herbs! One more thing goes wrong and heads are going to roll.” Chef K whacked the dead plants against Henry’s desk, sending wilted leaves flying as she stomped back to the restaurant.

  Archie sighed deeply. “This wasn’t how our first two days were supposed to go,” he mumbled, massaging his worry lines.

  “I’m on the case,” I volunteered before he even had a chance to ask.

  “Thank you, Nancy, that would be fantastic—” He hesitated. “What am I saying? I can’t ask you to investigate with a broken leg! You’re supposed to be resting!”

  “To be honest, I’m going to go loopy without something to do,” I told him. “I’m up and about anyway, and I’ll keep the investigation low impact, I promise. I’ll just wheel myself around and see if I notice anything suspicious.”

  “Why am I even considering this?” Archie asked himself. “It’s a few plants, for goodness’ sake. I’m sure someone just made a mistake.”