The Clue at Black Creek Farm

by Carolyn Keene

  Everyone was quiet for a minute.

  “How would you even do it?” Julie asked.

  Bess nodded. “Contaminating a whole farm full of produce—in broad daylight? It seems impossible.”

  I stood up, an idea taking root. “It probably is,” I said, walking toward the window and looking out over the rows of crops. Whoever’s doing this is doing it at night, I realized, and suddenly our next step became clear. I turned to Bess with a grin.

  Alarm brightened her eyes. “I know that grin,” Bess said. “I hate that grin. That’s the ‘Nancy has an idea Bess is going to hate’ grin.”

  I shrugged, glancing at the crops again and back.

  “So what is it?” Bess went on.

  I smiled, gesturing toward the planted fields. “Feel like camping out tonight, Bess?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Trouble in the Barn

  “I HATE THIS,” BESS GRUMPED as she laid out one of the sleeping bags Sam and Abby had loaned us in the tent they’d also loaned us.

  “Come on, Bess,” I chided, bumping her shoulder playfully (which was super easy to do, since the tent was only about five feet across). “We got to have a hot dog cookout for dinner!”

  She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, that really made my day, Nancy. Because I am nine years old.”

  “Anyway,” I said, fluffing my pillow, “I thought you were invested in the case now?”

  Bess groaned. “Couldn’t I be invested while we watched the footage from a video camera or something?”

  I shook my head. “There’s no way a video camera could cover the same amount of space as two sets of human eyes and ears,” I explained. “Besides, I want to catch whoever is doing this quickly! The sooner we get this figured out, the sooner everything can go back to normal at Black Creek Farm.”

  “And with Sam,” Bess added quietly, her face drooping.

  “And Sam,” I confirmed. The kindly farmer had seemed sort of embarrassed when he’d learned that Bess and I knew he had cancer. He apologized for not telling us but repeated what Abby had said—he didn’t want anyone to treat him any differently. And he thought it was irrelevant to the case.

  But is it? I bit my lip now, remembering how upset Jack had seemed that morning, and even earlier, the night of the buffet. It had been perfectly clear that Jack didn’t support his father’s decision to become a farmer. Could he really care more about his inheritance than his father’s happiness? I wondered. Does he think if he ruins Black Creek’s reputation, Sam will close the farm and stop losing money by chasing his dream?

  Bess yawned loudly, cutting off my gloomy train of thought. I turned and found her stretched out on her sleeping bag.

  “How are we doing this?” she asked, propping herself up on her elbow.

  “We take shifts,” I explained. We’d discussed this over hot dogs, but I was getting the sense that Bess was pretty worn out. I should have been too, but I guessed adrenaline was keeping me going. The thrill of the chase. “Two hours each. I can take the first shift,” I offered. “You go to sleep. It’s ten now—I’ll wake you up at midnight. Okay?”

  “Okay,” Bess agreed. But her voice was muffled as she was already climbing into her sleeping bag. Abby had loaned us T-shirts and sweatpants to sleep in. It was slightly cool in the tent; perfect sleeping weather.

  “I’ll sit outside,” I said, climbing out the tent’s zippered door. We’d set up the tent on a small hill that overlooked the fields of crops—as close to having a view of the whole farm as I could find.

  I settled myself on a rock next to a tree and turned to position an old camping lantern the Heyworths had lent me. I kept the lantern off so our campsite wouldn’t attract any attention; the moon was nearly full, casting plenty of light to see into the fields. It was totally quiet except for the occasional hoot of an owl or chirping of crickets. I glanced over at the house; all the lights were out except one, on the top floor. I watched a figure pass in front of the window: Jack. I shuddered and wasn’t sure why. Jack had finally returned to the farm as we were finishing up our weenie roast on the back porch. He claimed he’d been working in a coffee shop all day—trying to collect his head. No one questioned him, and he asked where Julie was and then disappeared upstairs. Sam had looked after him, pensive, and Abby had put her hand on his arm and told him to “give Jack time.”

  Then the conversation had shifted.

  The figure disappeared from the window, and soon after, the light went out. Everyone would be going to sleep now—except me.

  I cast my eyes out over the fields again. Where are you, little crops poisoner? I thought. Greenhouse destroyer? Dream trampler?

  I rested my back against the tree and got ready for a long night.

  It was almost midnight. I stared into my phone, watching each minute pass, dying to wake up Bess so I could get some shut-eye. It had been a long day, and adrenaline could only get me so far.

  That was when I heard what sounded like a car coming up the road. My heart squeezed. There were only two farms and one or two other houses on this road—what were the chances someone could be coming home this late? I blinked my eyes and shook my head, trying to wake up. Could this be my crops saboteur?

  I got to my feet. The car noise died down right in front of the farm. I heard the shuddery sound of an engine turning off, and then a car door opening and slamming.

  Gulp. I ran my fingers over the phone in my hand. I’d typed in the farm’s house number as a “favorite.” The plan was, if I saw anything unusual, I would call and wake them up.

  Should I call now?

  It was unusual to have someone pull up to the house in the middle of the night, wasn’t it?

  I swiped my finger across the bottom of the screen to wake up the phone, but before I could enter my pass code, I heard them.

  Footsteps.

  They were headed from the house . . . this way.

  I turned and squinted toward the path that led from the driveway, behind the house, to the foot of the hill where we were camped. There it was: a dark figure. It looked small, like a teenager or petite woman, and it wore a gray sweatshirt and a baseball cap. It was carrying something large and heavy-looking in its arms.

  Whoever it was, he or she was close enough that they would be upon me before I could get Sam or Abby out here. My fingers clutched uselessly at my phone. Should I call the police? I thought of the unlit lantern sitting nearby and considered grabbing it.

  But it was too late. I heard a twig snap just feet away and realized the person was already climbing the hill. It’s like they know we’re here! I felt my heart start to pound in my chest.

  “Bess!” I tried to shout, but my voice came out as a husky whisper. This is like a nightmare! With my last remaining wits, I scrambled back to the tent and reached inside for the item Sam had insisted on loaning us before he went to bed . . .

  . . . a baseball bat.

  The thing was aluminum and super heavy. Sam said it had belonged to Jack. I raised it over my head and forced air into my lungs, so I could shout . . .

  “STAY BACK! I HAVE A WEAPON!”

  The figure stopped short. He or she was just a few yards away now, down the hill. I was peering down at the top of a dark baseball cap. Jack?

  “Nancy?”

  The figure spoke in a female voice. It took me a few seconds to realize that this was a familiar female voice. She reached up and pulled off the baseball cap, revealing a mop of short-cropped black hair.

  “George!” I dropped the baseball cap and lunged toward her, folding her into a hug. (I’m not normally the huggy type, but it’s funny what thinking you’re in mortal peril will do to you.) “Oh my gosh, you scared me! What are you doing here?”

  George pulled back and retrieved her phone from her sweatshirt pocket. “I’m sorry, Nancy! I’ve just been getting all these texts from you and Bess about how you were camping out here tonight. I was feeling a little left out. So when I finished my shift at the Coffee Cabin, I ran home, packed a bag,
and drove over. It never occurred to me that you might think I was the bad guy. I’m really sorry.”

  I let out a sigh of relief. “It’s fine, George. Actually . . . I’m really glad you’re here.”

  George smiled. She shifted her arms, and I could see now that the heavy-looking thing she was carrying was just her duffel bag.

  I took a step back toward the tent. “Come on in. It’s time for me to wake up Bess for her shift.”

  George raised her eyebrows. “Want me to take the next shift instead?”

  “Aren’t you tired?”

  George shook her head. “It’s the benefit of working at a place called the Coffee Cabin, Nance,” she said with a smile. “I made myself a double espresso right before I left.”

  Who knows how many hours later, I startled awake to a sharp poke in the shoulder.

  “Your turn,” Bess said gruffly. I’d barely woken up enough to hear George come into the tent and wake Bess at two a.m. Before I could respond, she’d already dived around me into her sleeping bag and had the blanket pulled up over her head.

  I shimmied out, reached beneath my pillow for my phone, and checked the time. Four a.m. I glanced over at the other sleeping bag and saw George snoring away.

  “Did you see anything?” I asked Bess. My eyes were dying to close again so I could slip back into a dream. I shook my head, trying to clear the cobwebs.

  “Nothing,” Bess mumbled. “Now I’m enjoying the sight of the insides of my eyelids.”

  “Gotcha.” I let out a final sigh and then drew myself to my feet and scooted out of the tent.

  The world outside was dead quiet now. Even the crickets and owls had called it a night, it seemed. I breathed in the cold, clear air and looked around. The moon hung just above the horizon, ready to cede the sky to the sun. A barely perceptible glow of grayish-blue light hovered over the horizon opposite. Sunrise couldn’t be far off.

  The crops were quiet, seemingly undisturbed. I yawned, wondering whether this was a bad idea. Maybe whoever’s contaminating the crops knows I’m looking into it, so they’re keeping quiet. I frowned. Maybe whoever’s behind it is sleeping right there in that house, I thought, looking over at the farmhouse.

  The house was totally dark. I moved around to make myself comfortable, leaning back against the tree and pulling my sweatshirt around me like a blanket.

  Only a few more hours to go . . .

  I woke suddenly to dark-blue sky streaked with orange. I jumped up: What? Where am . . . But then I looked around and saw the fields of crops spreading out below, the tent with my two sleeping friends inside behind me. I must have dozed off. I wiggled around, trying to wake up. I hope I didn’t miss anything. What if —

  CRASH!

  I jumped and turned toward the source of the noise. It was coming from behind the storage barn. I got to my feet, hearing the panicked clucking of chickens. The chicken coop. Someone’s spooking the chickens.

  The sun hadn’t yet crested the horizon, but the moon was gone. Streaks of orange and pink lit up the sky, but the world still looked dim and ink-stained. I squinted toward the path that led to the storage barn but couldn’t make out anything unusual. Should I call Sam? What if it is Sam? I pulled out my phone and checked it: 4:53. Maybe they always feed the chickens at this hour. Sam and Abby had made jokes the day before about how early the day started on a farm. Why didn’t I ask?

  A shriek sounded from behind the coop, followed by more panicked clucking. I quickly grabbed the lantern, turned it on, and started to run down the hill, then paused. Should I wake up Bess and George?

  Whatever was going on in the chicken coop, it clearly wasn’t someone poisoning the crops. I’ll go check it out quickly. It could just be an animal—or a family member feeding them. The chickens sounded upset, but my dealings with chickens so far had convinced me they weren’t the brightest of animals. I wasn’t ready to sound the alarm over a few angry chickens.

  I shoved my phone into my pocket and scurried down the hill, trying not to make a sound. I darted into the storage barn, which was completely dark except for the glow from my lantern.

  “Hello?” I asked. “Anyone out here? Sam? Abby?”

  I crept through the barn, heading toward the back door to check on the chicken coop. Halfway across, I stumbled and tripped. As I tumbled to the ground, the lantern slipped from my grip, rolling across the barn and extinguishing as it crashed into the wall. I was left in near-total darkness, with only a few bars of dim light filtering through the barn’s slats.

  I could make out loud sounds coming from the coop now: banging and scraping. The chickens were going crazy.

  I slowly got to my feet, peering around for the lantern, but it was too difficult to make out in the near blackness. Instead I tiptoed toward what I hoped was the barn’s back door, toward the sound of the clucking chickens. I felt the edge of the barn wall and made my way to the door.

  I peered around the corner of the door and gasped.

  The screen door to the coop opened with a creak, and a dark figure wearing a bulky black hoodie stood silhouetted in the dim light. A black hoodie like Bob’s, I realized. I stared at the figure, squinting to see though the gloom, but the murky darkness made it impossible to identify the person. The chickens screamed as he or she emerged, and I could see that the person was holding two chickens by the neck. A cloud of feathers puffed out of the coop after them. The figure walked a few steps and then stopped short. He or she turned slowly, and my blood chilled.

  The figure was looking right at me. The early morning light lit him or her from behind, making it impossible to identify the person.

  The figure passed one of the chickens to the other hand and pulled something from his or her waistband.

  I felt my breath catch as the item caught the orange light from the sky.

  It was a long, curved blade.

  The figure turned the chickens clutched in his or her hand slowly, and in the dim light I could see they were stained with blood.

  I choked out a gasp. Even though I knew any case could turn deadly, I hadn’t really expected to find someone dangerous on the farm that night. Whoever was sabotaging the farm was just spraying bacteria on a bunch of vegetables. Potentially deadly bacteria, sure. But it wasn’t a violent act in itself.

  I had to get away! I closed my fingers around the phone in my pocket, but I was too late. The figure dropped the chickens—the dead chickens, I thought with sickening dread—and ran toward me. I yanked my hand from my pocket and ran.

  I lunged away, nearly tripping over my feet in my haste to escape. He has a knife! And he’s coming after me!

  I headed back toward the hill and the tent but quickly thought better of it. Bess and George were probably safe where they were. If this person even knew they were there, it would be a while before he or she could get to them. Instead I ran for the house.

  The figure was just a few yards behind me, gaining fast. I willed my feet to go faster, my lungs to hold out. Just get me to the house. . . . It was maybe fifty yards away, over a plowed field of eggplant. There was no time to veer around the crops. I ran right through them. I was just a few feet from the narrow backyard when my foot got tangled in a vine and I felt myself yanked down toward the ground. The impact knocked the wind out of me, and I felt the sticky, squelchy ooze of wet mud.

  BANG! BANG!

  I struggled to my feet, the mud letting me go with a reluctant belch. It couldn’t be. But . . .

  BANG!

  The sounds were shots. The figure was shooting at me.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Fresh Blood

  I RAN LIKE MY LIFE depended on it . . . because it looked like it did. I scrambled out of the mud and into the grassy yard, over the short distance to the porch, up onto the porch.

  BANG!

  I ducked down instinctively. But nothing sailed past me; in fact, I realized I wasn’t hearing the bullets make contact with anything. Maybe he or she is just trying to scare me off, I thought. But it was col
d comfort. I kept running.

  When I hit the top step, the bright-yellow porch light went on. It must be motion-activated. I ran to the door and pounded on it, then turned and looked behind me, hoping that I could identify the mysterious figure in the blaze of the porch light.

  But when I turned around, there was no one there. Was he or she lingering just outside the yellow beam of light? Or had they given up?

  I pounded on the door again. The house was silent. I turned and looked at the yard, which was empty. But is the attacker still out there? My heart thumped in my chest.

  I raised my hand to pound on the door again just as it opened, and suddenly Abby stood there, wearing a blue bathrobe and a confused expression. “Nancy?” she asked. “Is everything—?”

  I pushed past her through the foyer and into the kitchen. “I have to come inside!”

  Abby moved aside to let me in and closed the door. “Are you all right?”

  I stood in the middle of the kitchen, leaned on the table, and took a deep breath. In. Out. In. Out. “Did you hear the shots?” I asked.

  “Shots?” Abby asked. “What?”

  As quickly as I could, I explained what had happened with the noises from the chicken coop and spotting the intruder with the knife—and then being chased and hearing the gunshots. “He or she was wearing a hoodie,” I said. “A black hoodie—like Bob’s.”

  Abby looked as stunned as if I had slapped her. “Bob?” she echoed weakly. “But—”

  “Oh my God!” I cried as I suddenly realized. “Bess and George are still out there in the tent! If whoever’s out there found them . . .”

  Abby drew her lips into a thin line. “I’ll wake up Sam,” she said. “He’ll fetch the hunting rifle and go get them. Try not to worry.”

  Try not to worry! Ha! But before I could reply, Abby was already halfway upstairs. I tried again to take deep breaths. You’re okay. Sam’s going to get Bess and George. It’s all okay.

  But then I jumped; I could have sworn I heard footsteps downstairs. Is someone else up? I crept to the door of the kitchen and peered into the foyer, but I couldn’t see anything. I nervously crossed the foyer and looked into the living room. Does Bob have a house key? I wondered. And then I remembered the thought I’d had earlier this morning: maybe the culprit is in the house. Realistically, wasn’t it likely that whoever I’d seen by the chicken coop had a personal reason to sabotage the farm? What was more personal than family? I stepped into the darkened living room, lit only by the early dawn light coming through a large bay window. I looked beneath the window and jerked back.