Thrill Ride

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “He must’ve been allergic to bees,” I guessed. “He went into anaphylactic shock, and nobody noticed in all the hysteria about the out-of-control carousel.”

  “Then his death was still caused by the sabotage to the carousel,” Frank said grimly. “At least indirectly. If people hadn’t been distracted by the ride, someone might have noticed that this man needed help.”

  “It’s true. If we’d gotten here sooner, we could’ve given him a shot of adrenaline and saved his life,” the EMT said.

  “You don’t know that,” Little Bernie put in. “It’s not fair to blame the carousel.”

  “It’s yet another example of unsafe rides at this amusement park!” a loud voice broke into our conversation. “This is the second accident in two weeks!”

  It was a tall man in a dark suit and tie. His face was bright red and sweaty. That’s what he gets for wearing a suit on a hot summer day, I thought.

  “You!” the man shouted, pointing at Little Bernie. “You should be ashamed of your father, allowing this run-down old park to stay open.”

  “Who let you in?” Little Bernie demanded. “Security!”

  “I paid for a ticket like anybody else,” the man said. He raised his voice, trying to get the attention of the other people gathered around the carousel. “This place should be shut down! How many people have to die here before the state takes action? Somebody should sue them!”

  “Who is this guy?” I asked Little Bernie.

  “John Richardson,” he told me. “Security!”

  So this was the businessman Little Bernie had told us about earlier. The one who had a motive to hurt him.

  “What’s going on here?” Uncle Bernie came huffing and puffing over to where we stood.

  “You’ve had another accident on one of the rides, Flaherty,” John Richardson said loudly.

  “No one was injured on the carousel,” I told Uncle Bernie. “But—”

  “Richardson, I thought I told you to stay away from this park,” Uncle Bernie interrupted. He didn’t seem to want to hear about the carousel disaster.

  “If I were you, I would seriously reconsider the offer my company made you,” Richardson said more quietly. “My offer of a million dollars is the best one you’re going to get for this place.”

  “Yeah, so you can turn it into a strip mall or a condo park or some other ugly piece of suburban sprawl,” Uncle Bernie spat.

  “I want to turn it into a parking garage, actually,” Mr. Richardson said.

  Uncle Bernie looked ready to explode. “A garage? Are you crazy? This park has been in my family since 1924! It’s my whole life, and my father’s and his father’s. It will be my son’s one day. And you think I’m gonna let you turn it into a garage?”

  “Look, Flaherty,” Mr. Richardson said. His face was getting red again. “It’s only a matter of time before you get shut down for all these safety violations—”

  “There haven’t been any violations,” Uncle Bernie interrupted. He glanced nervously at the people standing nearby. Most of them were watching this conversation with interest. “These incidents were accidents, plain and simple.”

  “—and once the park is closed, our offer to buy it will be a lot less money,” Mr. Richardson continued. “You’ll be begging us to take it off your hands.”

  “Do you think we really can sue him?” a woman asked Mr. Richardson. “My daughter’s hands got all scraped up from holding on to the merry-go-round when it was out of control.”

  “Yeah, and one of the carousel horses banged up my knee,” a nearby kid added.

  Uncle Bernie’s eyes bulged. I could see that he was about to panic.

  “Hey, Dad,” Little Bernie said, tugging on his sleeve.

  But Uncle Bernie ignored him. He shook off his son’s hand and climbed up onto the carousel. “Attention, everyone!” he yelled.

  “This ought to be good,” Frank murmured. “How’s he gonna make all these people forget about wanting to sue him?”

  “I apologize for the unfortunate malfunction on our carousel,” Uncle Bernie announced. “We here at Uncle Bernie’s Fun Park take your safety very seriously. And that means the carousel will be closed until we can find out exactly what happened.”

  “You mean exactly who hooked it up to some extra juice,” I said.

  “In the meantime, to show how sorry we are, I’d like to offer everyone in the park a hot dog on the house.”

  The murmuring of the crowd grew more cheerful.

  “In fact, I’ll throw in a free ice cream cone for each kid, too,” Uncle Bernie added.

  Immediately a cheer went up from all the kids in the crowd. People streamed toward the snack bar, smiles on their faces.

  “Wow,” Frank said. “Looks like all it takes is a free hot dog and people will forgive anything.”

  “Not me,” I replied. “I still want to get to the bottom of these so-called accidents. Although I wouldn’t mind a free hot dog first.”

  I glanced over at Little Bernie. He was smirking at John Richardson, and Mr. Richardson didn’t look too happy about it.

  “Don’t go gloating yet, kid,” Richardson said. “This place will be mine, one way or another.” He stalked off.

  Little Bernie grinned at me. “That guy’s such a loser,” he said. “You dudes want a hot dog? I can take you to the front of the line.”

  “Sure,” I replied. We followed him over to the snack bar. Normally I’d feel bad about cutting in line, but everybody there seemed happy to let us go first. Several of them slapped Frank and me on the back as we walked by. Even if they weren’t planning to sue Uncle Bernie, they still considered us heroes for getting the carousel to stop.

  The guy who served us our hot dogs didn’t look too cheerful, though. He sneered at Little Bernie, and he sneered at us.

  I didn’t care. That dog hit the spot!

  “What do you think about John Richardson?” Frank asked as we left the snack bar with our food. “He looks like a suspect to me.”

  SUSPECT PROFILE

  Name: Jone Richardson

  Hometown: Boston, Massachusetts

  Physical description: Age 48, 5′10″, Thinning brown hair, face flushes easily.

  Occupation: Land developer

  Background: Unclear right now.

  Background. Was present carousel went out of control. Has made veiled threats to Uncle Bernie and Little Bernie.

  Suspected of: Sabotaging the Doom Rider roller coaster and the carousel.

  Possible motives: Wants Uncle Bernie to sell him the amusement park so he can tear it down.

  “Yep,” I agreed. “It’s obvious that Uncle Bernie isn’t willing to sell to him. But if he got the amusement park closed down, Uncle Bernie would probably change his mind.”

  “You think so?” Little Bernie asked.

  “Sure,” Frank said. “If the park is really closed for good, your dad would have no reason to keep the land. He’d have to sell it and start over somewhere else.”

  Little Bernie stopped walking.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  He took another step, then staggered backward a little. “I… I don’t feel so good,” he said.

  “Are you sick?” I asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s the … the …” Little Bernie’s eyes rolled back in his head. Then he collapsed on the ground.

  Little Bernie lay crumpled on the blacktop, unconscious.

  Immediately I knelt by his side. I was grateful for my emergency medical training. “Bernie, can you hear me?” I asked. I lightly grabbed his shoulder and repeated the question.

  “No answer,” Joe said. “Check his airway.”

  “Help me roll him.” Little Bernie was too heavy for me to move quickly. Joe bent and helped me push him over until he lay flat on his back.

  I tilted Little Bernie’s head back and gently lifted his chin. I eased his mouth open a little. There was still no response.

  “Is he breathing?” Joe asked.

 
; I bent over Little Bernie’s face and put my cheek next to his nose and mouth. I watched his chest for signs of breathing. In a second I felt air coming from his mouth. His chest rose and fell. “Yeah, he’s breathing.” I put two fingers to Little Bernie’s neck and felt for a pulse. “His pulse is strong,” I told Joe.

  “Okay, let’s get him into the recovery position,” Joe said.

  I pulled Little Bernie toward me while Joe pushed from behind to help move him. As he rolled, I lifted his arm over his head and Joe crossed one of Little Bernie’s ankles over the other. Soon enough we had him lying on his side. His knee had bent because of the crossed ankles, so he lay propped up by his knee and arm.

  Joe and I stood up. At this point in the emergency medical treatment, we were supposed to go get help. But somehow I didn’t think Little Bernie needed an ambulance. He was breathing fine, his pulse was normal, and his skin looked the same as ever. He hadn’t grown pale, or flushed, or turned green or blue like he would have if there was something really wrong.

  “Doesn’t seem like he choked,” Joe said. “He can breathe.”

  I nodded. “And if he’d gotten a bite of bad meat, his color would have changed. Or his pulse would be racing … or something.”

  Little Bernie’s eyelids fluttered, then opened. “What happened?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” I told him. “What do you remember?”

  Little Bernie slowly sat up. “I was eating a hot dog.”

  “Yeah. Then what?” I asked.

  “Something tasted funny … and that’s all I remember.” He frowned. “Do you think it was poisoned? You said someone might be trying to hurt me, right?”

  I glanced around. Practically everyone in the park was eating a hot dog right now, and nobody else was keeling over. So it wasn’t likely that the hot dogs were bad, or poisoned. On the other hand, the guy who’d given us the dogs had been scowling at Little Bernie.

  “It’s possible that your hot dog did this to you,” I said.

  Joe nodded. “You were in the roller coaster when that accident happened, and you’re the only one who got sick from the hot dog. It seems like the perp could be trying to target you.”

  “Well, if the hot dog was tampered with, that means somebody in the snack bar knows about it,” I said. “And you told us the guy who runs the snack bar doesn’t like you.”

  Little Bernie nodded. “Big Jim. He hates me.”

  “Joe and I will go have a talk with him,” I said.

  “Okay.” Little Bernie got to his feet. “I better get back to work before my father notices me slacking off.”

  “Don’t you want to swing by the nurse’s office?” Joe asked. “To make sure you’re okay?”

  “Uh … nah,” Little Bernie said. “I feel fine now.”

  “All right.” I didn’t see Uncle Bernie anywhere, so he didn’t seem likely to notice Little Bernie. But I was done hanging out with this kid, anyway. We needed to do some hard-core investigating. “Go to the nurse if you start feeling sick again. See you later.”

  Little Bernie took off with a wave, and Joe and I headed for the snack bar.

  The crowd of people looking for free hot dogs had finally died down, and we found the scowling guy wiping the countertop.

  “Are you Big Jim?” I asked.

  His scowl grew deeper. “Nobody calls me that except old Bernie. My name is James Buchanan.”

  It didn’t seem like a good time to mention that Little Bernie also called him Big Jim.

  “Sorry, Mr. Buchanan,” I said.

  “Do I look big to you?” he interrupted. “Old Bernie thinks it’s funny to kick people when they’re down.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say. Big Jim was only about five foot four, pretty short for a guy. He seemed to have some kind of issue about his height, so I decided to ignore his comment.

  “You don’t seem to like Uncle Bernie very much,” I said.

  Big Jim glared at me. “Like him? I hate him!”

  “How about his son?” Joe put in. “Do you hate him, too?”

  “Why shouldn’t I?” Big Jim snapped. “That little brat acts like I work for him. I don’t care who his father is, he should show some respect to his elders!”

  “Did you know Little Bernie got sick just now?” I asked. “He ate one of your hot dogs, and then he just collapsed.”

  Big Jim leaned across the counter, still scowling. “And?” he said.

  “And he said he got a funny taste in his mouth just before he passed out,” I said.

  “I see.” Big Jim leaned closer to me. He might be a short guy, but he was still pretty intimidating. “So you think I slipped the brat a bad hot dog. Who are you kids?”

  “We’re looking into the accidents here in the park,” Joe replied. “We’re sort of amateur detectives.”

  “Then go harass someone else!” Big Jim roared. “You punks listen to me: I’ve been making hot dogs for thirty years! My dogs are all beef and there’s nothing wrong with them. It’s bad business to go around poisoning your customers—especially when one of them is the owner’s son. I’m no fool. I can’t stand the idea of working for that Little Bernie one day, but I didn’t poison him. Now get out!”

  I shot Joe a look.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  We took off.

  Outside, Uncle Bernie’s Fun Park was anything but fun. Every ride had a long line snaked around it, the air was thick with humidity, it had to be at least ninety-five degrees, most of the kids were whiny, and the parents looked miserable.

  “I think we need a break from this place,” Joe said.

  “We haven’t made any progress on the case,” I pointed out. “We have a bunch of suspects, but no evidence.”

  “I know. That’s why we have to clear our minds,” Joe said. “Spend an hour or two not thinking about Uncle Bernie. Then we’ll have a better perspective on things.”

  SUSPECT PROFILE

  Name: James “Big” Jim” Buchanan

  Hometown: Riggs, Massachusetts

  Physical description: Age 61, 5′4″, 150 lbs. wiry frame, long hair in a ponytail, constant scowl on hisface.

  Occupation: Manages the snack bar at Uncle Bernie’s Fun Park.

  Background. Has been making hot dogs for thirty years.

  Suspicious behavior: May have poisoned Little Bernie’s hot dog.

  Suspected of: Sabotaging the Doon Rider roller coaster and the carousel. Poisoning Little Bernie.

  Possible motives: Hates Uncle Bernie. Resents the fact that Little ternie will inherit the amusement park.

  I rolled my eyes. Joe is so obvious sometimes. “All right, what do you really want to do?” I asked.

  “There’s a water park half a mile away,” he said with a huge grin. “We passed it on the way up, and it’s scorching out. Doesn’t a water slide sound sweet right now?”

  I had to admit, it did.

  Still, with water parks came girls. Girls in bathing suits. Girls Joe would want to flirt with. “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe we should stay here and keep looking around.”

  A little kid wandered past us, wobbly from the teacup ride. He turned toward me—and puked all over the ground.

  “Okay,” I said. “Water park it is.”

  Splash World. I could hardly believe Frank had agreed to come here. Water parks are the coolest things on the planet!

  “This place has a surfing pool!” I said, studying the map of the park.

  Frank was busy looking around. “It’s a lot newer than Uncle Bernie’s.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “This information map says the place opened only two years ago.”

  “It must get a lot more business than Uncle Bernie’s does,” Frank said thoughtfully. “I wonder if the owners of Splash World are planning to expand. They’d need Uncle Bernie’s land to do that.”

  Unreal. I was trying to forget about our mission for an hour or two, but Frank brought it right along with us. “You’re not supposed to think about Uncle Be
rnie right now,” I said. “Or about Richardson, or Big Jim, or anybody else. We’re here to have fun.”

  “Okay.” Frank squinted at the map. “Let’s go on the Roundabout River.”

  “You’re such a baby,” I scoffed. “That’s for little kids. All you do is sit in a stupid tube and float around the park.”

  Frank rolled his eyes. “What do you want to do?”

  “There’s a four-story-tall water slide,” I said. “And two covered slides. Those are the coolest.”

  “Excuse me,” said a voice next to me. “Do you mind if we look at the map with you?”

  I looked down to see two gorgeous girls around our age. One of them had long curly dark hair and big brown doe eyes. The other one was taller, with strawberry blond hair and long legs. They both wore bikinis.

  And they were both looking at Frank.

  “Sure. You can squeeze in here with us,” I said pointedly, but it was no use. It was happening again: That mysterious magnetic power Frank seems to have over girls was drawing these two right over to him. It’s just not fair.

  “Thanks,” the dark-haired girl said. They both stepped in front of us, and we all looked at the map for a few seconds.

  “I think we should go on the Roundabout River,” the tall one said. “What do you think, Lisa?”

  Lisa—the brunette one—nodded. “That sounds like a good way to start. We can see the whole park from the river and then pick our next ride.” She gazed up at Frank. “Do you guys want to come with us?”

  “Sure,” I said quickly. “We were planning to start with the Roundabout River too.”

  “We were not,” Frank put in. “You said it was boring and that it was for little kids.”

  Lisa and her friend shot me dirty looks. I shot Frank a dirty look. Was he really so clueless? Did he seriously not get that I was trying to find an excuse to hang out with two cute girls?

  “You don’t have to come on it, then,” Lisa told me. “Renee and I will go with your friend.”

  “He’s my brother, actually,” I said, putting on my best flirtatious smile. “And I was just teasing him about the ride.”