Terror at High Tide

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Frank and Joe thanked Alicia and said goodbye to Mr. Geovanis. Then Callie, Frank, and Joe headed out the door. “What’s your gut feeling about the balloon, Frank?” Joe asked in a low voice as they stepped out of the museum. “Do you think Mr. Geovanis is right about it?”

  “Probably,” Frank answered. “He’s the expert. Though his own experience with the shipwreck might sway him about the balloon.”

  “What do you mean?” Callie asked.

  Frank shrugged. “It’s just that Mr. Geovanis might want the balloon to be real—to connect him again to his father.”

  “So he might overlook evidence that the balloon’s not really from the Ebony Pearl?” Joe asked.

  “Not on purpose,” Frank replied. “I hope Mr. Geovanis is right—I wouldn’t want that slime Scarlatti to have the last laugh.”

  Joe frowned. “That guy is the human equivalent of Mount Vesuvius. He could erupt at any time. I don’t see how Mr. Geovanis can work with him.”

  “I wonder what Scarlatti’s reaction will be tomorrow after he reads about the balloon in the newspaper,” Callie mused, shooting Frank a wry grin. “I wouldn’t want to be within earshot of the guy.”

  After firming up plans to meet Callie for breakfast the next morning, Frank and Joe waved goodbye to her and climbed into Alicia’s Jeep. Then they headed back to the beach to spend the rest of the afternoon surfing.

  • • •

  “Check out this headline, Joe,” Frank said the next morning as he held up the front page of the Island News. He and Joe were standing inside the Hub, a book and newspaper shop on Main Street.

  Glancing over Frank’s shoulder, Joe read, “ ‘Shipwrecked Balloon Washes Ashore!’ I’m impressed. Callie’s story is front-page news.”

  “The Ebony Pearl?” an elderly man in tennis whites said. “What about it?”

  “You’ll have to buy the Island News to find out, Mr. Lewis,” the man behind the counter told him. “But you’d better hurry—I’m running low. The whole town wants to read about it.”

  As Mr. Lewis reached behind Joe for a newspaper, Joe shot Frank a wide grin. “How does it feel to be famous, Frank?” he asked in a low voice. “Callie’s article mentions you by name. It says, ‘The amazing discovery was made by Frank Hardy of Bayport, New York, at about three o’clock yesterday afternoon.’ ”

  “Shhh,” Frank said, putting on a pair of sunglasses. “I don’t want to be recognized.”

  Joe rolled his eyes. “I’ll do my best to shield you from the paparazzi.”

  After paying for their newspaper, Frank and Joe headed across the street to the Muffin Café, where they were planning to meet Callie for breakfast.

  “Hi, guys,” Callie called from the doorway. “I’ve saved us a table in the back garden,” she said, leading the way through the restaurant.

  “Sorry we’re late,” Frank said as they sat down at their table. “But we had to stop to buy a copy of the Island News. We didn’t want to miss the lead story.” He tossed the newspaper onto the table.

  Callie’s face lit up. “Did you read the story? What did you think? Does it seem more exciting than the pancake breakfast?”

  “Slow down,” Frank said, grinning. “One question at a time. Yes, I read the story. And yes, I think it’s great. But no, it’s not as exciting as the pancake breakfast.”

  Callie laughed, then made a face at Frank. “Give me a break, will you?”

  As they looked at their menus, Joe overheard some people at the next table talking about the Ebony Pearl. No doubt about it, he thought, Callie’s story is the talk of the island.

  Joe noticed Roberto Scarlatti sitting alone at a table nearby. He was drinking coffee and reading a copy of the Island News, an angry scowl on his face. As Joe nudged Frank and Callie, Scarlatti threw the paper down on an empty chair. “Rubbish,” he muttered in disgust. Then he plunked down some change on his table and got up to leave.

  “Mr. Scarlatti,” Joe said, rising quickly from his chair. “I’m Joe Hardy. I met you yesterday at the museum.”

  “Yes?” Scarlatti said, looking at Joe coolly. Joe wasn’t sure if Scarlatti remembered him.

  “I noticed you reading the newspaper, and I wondered what you thought of the lead story,” Joe said.

  Scarlatti frowned—like a thundercloud about to explode, Joe thought. He hoped the guy wouldn’t blow his cool right there in the restaurant.

  “The article is absurd,” Scarlatti spat out. “It reported what that imbecile George Geovanis said, no questions asked. I’m going to the Island News right now to set the record straight. I’ll make them publish my story tomorrow.”

  Onlookers at nearby tables glanced at Scarlatti with curiosity as he stormed out of the café.

  “Hmm,” Callie said, her brown eyes looking worried. “I hope I won’t have to write up that story. It would make a terrific article, but Scarlatti sure has a short fuse. He might blow up during the interview.”

  “Let’s order,” Frank said, “so we can get going. How about a little kayaking after breakfast, Joe?”

  “Sounds good to me,” Joe replied as he studied the menu. “I don’t know how you can call this breakfast, though. All I see here is muffins. Where are the steak and eggs? Or at least one measly little hot dog?”

  “For breakfast?” Callie said with a smile. “Yuck.” She glanced at her watch. “I’ve got to be at work soon, but why don’t we meet at the Atlantic Café for dinner? There is something on that menu for everyone—even Joe,” she added with a mischievous grin.

  • • •

  At eleven o’clock that evening Frank, Joe, Callie, and Alicia were walking down South Beach Street, eating ice-cream cones. Frank and Joe carried skateboards under their arms, and Callie and Alicia wheeled bicycles.

  “Let’s see if you can skateboard and eat ice cream at the same time,” Joe said.

  “Just because you dropped your cone and had to get a new one . . .” Frank said with a chuckle. “But, okay, I’ll give it a try.”

  Frank put down his board, then pushed off, and zoomed half a block down the street while skillfully maneuvering around a couple of pedestrians. As he flipped to a stop, he took a bite of his cone.

  “Dumb luck,” Joe muttered as he caught up with Frank.

  Frank, Joe, Callie, and Alicia had eaten a huge seafood dinner and then seen a movie. While they were getting ice cream, Alicia had offered to give them a private tour of the shipping museum as the perfect way to cap off the evening.

  Joe wondered why Alicia had been so quiet all evening—not at all like her usual bubbly self. When she and Callie caught up with the Hardys, Joe asked her what was wrong.

  “I’m worried about my dad,” Alicia explained. “He’s been preoccupied ever since this morning.”

  “What happened this morning?” Joe asked.

  “That worm Scarlatti wrote a nasty rebuttal to Callie’s article,” Alicia said. “He said that Dad was totally uninformed about the balloon. Then he went over to the paper to get them to publish it.”

  “I know,” Callie said. “A reporter was working on it for tomorrow’s paper.”

  Alicia sighed. “Dad’s at a dinner party right now for a guy named Harrison Cartwright, who’s campaigning to be a selectman of the town. A lot of Dad’s friends are there. I hope the party will cheer him up.”

  “Selectman? What’s that?” Joe asked her, hoping to take Alicia’s mind off her worries.

  “Nantucket has five of them,” Alicia explained, “and together they function as a sort of mayor. You have to get elected.”

  At the museum entrance Alicia took out a key ring from her pocket. She unlocked the door, then stepped inside to punch in the alarm code on a panel. “That’s weird,” she said, frowning. “Someone must have forgotten to put on the alarm.”

  Frank, Joe, and Callie followed Alicia inside. Suddenly Joe heard footsteps on the mezzanine. “There’s someone else here!” he said. “Come on, Frank—let’s check it out.”

  Joe
rushed forward into the dark room, with Frank right behind. As Joe reached the bottom of the stairway, he could see something on the balcony. Silhouetted in the moonlight, it looked like a monster with all its arms waving.

  The next thing Joe knew, a huge black object was falling down on him!

  3 A Shocking Announcement

  * * *

  Frank tackled Joe and pushed him forward. The huge black object landed behind them with a thud. It was the octopus, they realized.

  “Ugh,” Joe said, looking as though he wanted to gag, “this thing stinks. And it’s got its arms all over me.” He removed two tentacles, which had fallen over his legs. “I guess taxidermy doesn’t make it a cuddly kid’s toy.”

  “Come on,” Frank said, jumping to his feet. “Whoever’s in here threw that on you. We’ve got to find out who it is.” Frank’s sneakers scudded on the floor as he took off up the stairs.

  “Callie, Alicia!” Joe called as softly as he could. “We’re going to look around. Can you turn on some lights?” Alicia flicked on the light switch by the main entrance as Joe dashed up the stairs behind Frank.

  “I can’t believe it!” Frank exclaimed when he reached the top. Before him lay the ruins of the shipwreck exhibit. Display cabinets had been smashed, and shards of glass were everywhere. Ship models had been knocked off their display tables and lay in broken pieces among the glass.

  “I wonder if anything’s been stolen,” Frank said. “Alicia might know—”

  A crash interrupted him. It came from Mr. Geovanis’s office, and it sounded to Frank like glass breaking.

  Frank and Joe took off down the mezzanine toward the closed office door. Joe was about to fling the door open when Frank grabbed his arm. “Whoever’s inside might have a weapon,” he cautioned.

  Positioning themselves on either side of the door, the Hardys listened for a moment. Everything was silent. Frank pushed the door open a crack and peered inside. He could see that the computer monitor was on, giving off an eerie glow in the darkness.

  Frank opened the door farther, while Joe switched on the overhead light. The room looked empty.

  “What happened here?” Joe said with a low whistle. The office was a wreck. Manuscripts and books were scattered everywhere. File drawers had been opened, and papers were strewn on the floor. Glass from a broken picture frame lay in tiny pieces on the desk.

  “Make sure no one’s hiding behind the desk,” Frank said as he and Joe strode into the room.

  “No sign of anyone,” Joe said, leaning over the desk.

  A breeze wafted through the room. “Joe, look,” Frank said, pointing to the far corner.

  A window, partially hidden by a bookshelf, was wide open. “He must have escaped that way.” Frank moved over to the window and leaned out. A fire escape led down the side of the old brick building to a deserted alley.

  “Not a soul in sight,” he said. “The guy must be long gone.” Frank brought his head back inside.

  “Take a look at this,” Joe said as he stood in front of the computer.

  “It looks like the main menu of files,” Frank said, coming up next to Joe. The cursor highlighted a file labeled Fundra.97. Frank clicked the mouse, and a list of fund-raising events for the current year flashed onto the screen. “Can you make anything of this, Joe?”

  Joe’s blue eyes looked puzzled. “Nope,” he said. “At least, not yet. Give me a few more minutes.”

  “You stay here, then,” Frank said. “I’m going to tell Callie and Alicia it’s okay to come up.”

  Joe gave Frank the thumbs-up sign, his eyes on the computer screen.

  Two minutes later Frank, Callie, and Alicia came in. Alicia’s face was sheet white, and her green eyes flashed with anger. “Can you tell whether anything’s missing?” Frank asked her.

  Alicia shook her head. “I can’t tell anything right now. I hate to think how Dad’s going to take this.” She sat down in her father’s desk chair.

  “I can’t make sense of these files to see if the intruder was looking for a specific thing,” Joe said. “And I haven’t noticed anything that might clue us in to his or her identity.”

  “Identity!” Alicia scoffed. “Isn’t it clear that the culprit is Roberto Scarlatti?”

  “No,” Frank said firmly. “We have no hard evidence pointing to Scarlatti. We don’t even have evidence that the person took anything.”

  “Hang on a second,” Joe said. He ducked into the hallway and walked down the corridor to the next office. “Bingo,” he breathed as he read the placard next to the door: Roberto Scarlatti, Assistant Curator.

  Joe opened the door and flicked on the light switch, then stepped inside. “Wow,” he said to himself. “This guy makes the army look disorganized.”

  Scarlatti’s office was a model of order. The only items on his desk were a blotter, an inkstand, and a conch shell serving as a paperweight for a pile of neatly stacked notepaper. Not even a spot of ink on the blotter, Joe thought as he shook his head in disbelief.

  When he stepped back into the corridor, Joe saw Frank, Callie, and Alicia looking at the broken display cases in the exhibit area.

  “Scarlatti wins the neatness award of the year,” Joe said as he joined them. “And his office hasn’t been touched.”

  “That’s even more proof that Scarlatti’s behind all this,” Alicia said hotly. “He wouldn’t have wrecked his own stuff.”

  “But why would Scarlatti trash the museum?” Frank asked. “He may be angry at your father and want his job, but how would this get Scarlatti what he wants?”

  Alicia shrugged, peering into one of the display cases. “Roberto really went off the deep end yesterday—it would figure that he’d go to more extremes today.” She paused, then went on. “I’m almost positive that some cutlery and plates are missing from the Titanic exhibit. They’re not in here, and I haven’t noticed them anywhere on the floor.” She moved off in the direction of her father’s office.

  “Hmm,” Callie said. “Then it looks like the person’s motive may have been theft. Maybe he or she was on the way to Scarlatti’s office but heard us coming.”

  “Or it could have been Scarlatti on some crazy mission of revenge, trying to cover his tracks by making it seem like a robbery,” Joe suggested.

  “I want to look around some more for clues before we call the police,” Frank said.

  “Then you’re going to have to hurry,” Alicia said, sticking her head out of her father’s office. “I just called the police and they’re coming immediately. I also put in a call to Jonah Ferrier’s house. He’s the editor-in-chief of the Island News, and he’s hosting the dinner that Dad went to tonight. I left a message for Dad to come to the museum pronto.”

  “Then let’s get going, guys,” Frank urged. Leaning over the balcony by the stairs, Frank saw that the stuffed octopus had been attached to the ceiling by a chain with a hook on the end. The hook, now empty, dangled over the cavernous museum space at about the level of Frank’s waist. All the intruder had to do was reach over the balcony and unhook the thing, Frank figured.

  “Nantucket police!” announced a voice from downstairs. Two police officers—a thin middle-aged man and a chubby younger one—entered the museum lobby and began to climb the stairs toward Frank. “I’m Detective Crespi,” the older man said, “and this is my partner, Officer Brunswick. I understand you’ve had a bit of trouble here.”

  After introducing himself, Frank told the police what had happened. Then he introduced them to Joe, Callie, and Alicia.

  “Thank you for coming so quickly,” Alicia told the officers as she led the way to her father’s office.

  “Just doing our job,” Detective Crespi said brusquely. “Now, while Officer Brunswick takes a look around, let me ask you all a few questions. First, were there any signs of forced entry?”

  Alicia told them that the door was locked when they arrived but the alarm had been off.

  “So it was probably someone who’s familiar with the alarm code,” Cr
espi guessed. “Do all the employees know it?”

  “The higher-level ones do—like my dad and Mr. Scarlatti, the assistant curator,” Alicia answered. “I do part-time work here, so I have a key and know the code.”

  When Detective Crespi asked Alicia if she knew whether anything had been stolen, she mentioned the cutlery and china from the Titanic. “But I can’t tell whether anything’s missing from Dad’s office,” she added.

  Holding a pad of yellow paper with notes scrawled on it, Officer Brunswick joined the group. “There’s nothing more we can do until we talk to your father,” he said, looking at Alicia. “Please have him contact us as soon as possible. He’ll be the one to know for sure if anything’s been stolen.”

  “How about dusting for fingerprints?” Joe suggested. “The broken window frame might be a good place because none of us touched it.”

  “Good idea,” Crespi said. “I’ll do that now—and then I think we can call it a night. Of course, we’ll have to close the museum until it’s cleaned up and an inventory is taken.”

  After the police had finished their work, Alicia locked up the museum. Then she hopped on her bicycle and headed toward home, while Frank and Joe walked Callie to her apartment door.

  The Hardys strolled back to the Great White Whale, their bed-and-breakfast, carrying their skateboards and thinking about the case so far. When they reached the inn, they nearly fell into their beds, exhausted from the events of their day on the usually calm island of Nantucket.

  • • •

  “Now, this is what I call a breakfast,” Joe said as he attacked a pile of pancakes the next morning. He and Frank were sitting at a table in the breakfast room of the Great White Whale.

  “You’d better not go swimming today, Joe,” Frank said slyly, “or you’ll sink like—”

  Frank stopped in midsentence as the front door to the inn crashed open and Alicia appeared in the doorway of the breakfast room.

  “Alicia!” Joe said. “What’s up?”