The three women seemed quite relieved by my take-charge attitude. Reassured, Mrs. Mahoney and Ms. Waters finished their lunch, then thanked our hostess and left together a short while later. George and I cleared the table while Mrs. Fayne called the Olsens. I was wondering who was reading the paperback copy of Jane Austen’s novel Emma that I noticed on the kitchen counter when George spoke up.
“So, what do you think, Nancy?” she probed. “Any chance there’s a real ghost at Cardinal Corners?”
When I saw the smile that was tugging at the corner of my friend’s mouth, I chuckled. “I’m not scared. Are you?”
George grinned. “Not in broad daylight, anyway,” she said.
But by the time we’d finished helping Mrs. Fayne in the kitchen, the sky had grown dark with rain clouds. As George and I drove out to Cardinal Corners, the weather became even more threatening. We’d only been on the road for fifteen minutes when the heavy clouds opened up and drops poured down. I turned on my windshield wipers, but I could still barely see through the streaming rain.
“I think I’d better slow down,” I said. The wipers were flapping like crazy. “I can’t see a thing. George, you’ll have to help me look for the turnoff.”
George peered through the windows. Just then a clap of thunder boomed overhead and a jagged flash of lightning illuminated the highway. We both jumped.
“Just what we need—a thunderstorm on our way to a haunted house.” George laughed uneasily.
I only nodded, too preoccupied with driving cautiously to carry the joke any further. “There it is!” George declared. “I just saw the sign with the red bird on it—that must be Cardinal Corners up ahead.”
We soon saw the old three-story house rise up through the gloom. The lights were on, giving a welcoming glow in the dark, stormy afternoon.
“That must be Mrs. Olsen,” I said, pulling my car into the driveway as near to the veranda steps as possible. A short, red-haired woman with a blue sweater slung around her shoulders stood near the front door.
“We’ll have to make a dash for it,” George said. “And watch out for puddles.”
“Okay, here goes,” I replied, tucking my car keys into my purse. George and I ran like crazy up the steps of the B and B. We were wet, breathless, and laughing when the red-haired woman opened the front door for us.
“Come in, girls, before you drown,” she urged. “Thank goodness you’ve arrived safely. You must be Nancy Drew?” she said, looking up at me anxiously.
“Yes, ma’am,” I replied, shaking the rain from my skirt and swiping a hand through my damp hair. Up close, the woman looked much older. Her face was lined with wrinkles, and her curly red hair was heavily streaked with gray. But her brown eyes were vibrant and so was her smile.
“You must be Mrs. Olsen,” I said as we shook hands. Mine was slightly damp. “This is my friend George Fayne.”
“I’ve met your mother, George,” Mrs. Olsen said, shaking my friend’s hand, too. “Come in and dry off. I’ve got hot water on. We’ll have some tea—or coffee, if you’d prefer it.”
I opted for hot tea. George wanted coffee. We dried off a little in the bathroom down the hall and then made our way back to the foyer, where we rejoined Mrs. Olsen. She then led us to an old-fashioned parlor with a warm fire crackling in the fireplace. A tall, skinny man had assembled cups and saucers and platters of cookies.
“This is my husband, Karl,” Mrs. Olsen said. George and I shook hands with Mr. Olsen. He was so thin that his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down his throat when he spoke.
“You’ve restored this old house beautifully,” I told the couple. They seemed pleased by the compliment, and Mr. Olsen indicated some of the work they’d done to the tall, arched windows and high ceilings. Glancing around, I smiled slightly when I noticed the copy of Northanger Abbey by Jane Austen on the end table near Mrs. Olsen’s chair. That was one of Jane Austen’s novels I hadn’t read yet, but I hoped to get around to it one of these days.
As we sipped our hot drinks, Mrs. Olsen explained that she and her husband were both retired schoolteachers, and that they’d always dreamed of owning a bed-and-breakfast one day. They’d discovered the old Rappapport place while on a road trip more than a year ago and had fallen in love with it.
“Our first official day of business will be Saturday, when we host the Jane Austen Tea Party,” Mr. Olsen told us as he passed the cookies. “We already have customers booked for that weekend, and now, with the recent vandalism, we’re a little nervous to accept any more reservations.”
“Our life savings are tied up in this enterprise. We can’t quit, no matter what terrible things happen. We have no place else to go,” Mrs. Olsen said, wringing her hands. “No one ever mentioned the possibility that the house might be … well, you know … haunted,” she added nervously.
“I told Carol that a good old-fashioned ghost might be good for business,” Mr. Olsen said with a throaty chuckle.
“I’m not interested in that sort of business,” Mrs. Olsen replied curtly. “Can you help us, Nancy? Mrs. Fayne and the other women on the planning committee told us that you could.”
“Nancy does have a real knack for solving mysteries,” George spoke up.
Compliments always embarrass me a little. “I’ll certainly give it my best shot,” I assured them. “First tell me all that’s happened. Have either of you actually seen the ghost?”
“Emily claims she’s heard the ghost on more than one occasion,” Mrs. Olsen said with a sniff. “Emily works for us. Helps out in the kitchen and does the laundry, makes the beds. Frankly I don’t think it’s a ghost. I think someone is trying to run us out of business before we even get started.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Maybe they don’t want the competition,” Mr. Olsen ventured. “There are other B and Bs in town.”
“You told Chief McGinnis about the vandalism, right?” I pressed.
“We told him about the broken teapots,” Mr. Olsen admitted. “But the other incidents have been … well … strange.”
“You mean the tipped-over furniture and rumpled bed linens?” I asked.
The Olsens nodded.
“Once, we were jolted out of a sound sleep by a lot of banging coming from the kitchen,” Mrs. Olsen said. “When we came downstairs, we didn’t find anybody. But all the kitchen cabinets were flung open. Pots and pans and casserole dishes were scattered all over the floor.”
“Furniture has been moved once or twice, and all the mirrors hung crooked,” her husband added.
“But nothing broken or destroyed?” George asked.
“Not until the teapots yesterday,” Mr. Olsen said.
“I feel just awful about that too,” Mrs. Olsen added. “Most of the broken ones belonged to Evaline Waters.”
“Did you tell anybody else, other than the women on the fund-raiser committee, about what’s happened?” I asked.
Mr. Olsen chuckled dryly. “A fine pair of goonies we’d seem to be if we called the police about these sorts of incidents. And since we’re new to the community, we don’t know who to trust. We’re a little afraid, really, to talk about what’s been happening, and we don’t want any negative publicity.”
“Strange things just keep happening,” Mrs. Olsen admitted. “I’ll confess I’m very worried.”
So was I, but I didn’t say anything. I glanced at one of the tall arched windows and watched the rain pouring outside. There was a boom of thunder in the distance, and I made up my mind to get to work immediately. The random acts of vandalism or ghostly mischief were becoming increasingly destructive. Still, I didn’t think Chief McGinnis would give the crime a high priority. It would be up to me to solve the case.
“The police dusted for prints,” Mr. Olsen said then. I looked up from my teacup. “They had a look around but didn’t find anything,” he added with a shrug.
“And we only called because of the broken teapots,” Mrs. Olsen added. “We didn’t tell them about … about the other
things that happened.”
“We didn’t want them to think we were kooks or anything,” her husband said.
“Nancy, do you think a ghost is haunting Cardinal Corners?” Mrs. Olsen looked at me uncertainly.
“No,” I replied. “I think someone wants to scare you. Who and why I don’t know, but I intend to find out.”
“What about the teapots?” George asked me. “You don’t think they were destroyed to prevent the tea party from taking place?”
“No, I think they were broken because they were easy and convenient items to break,” I said.
“So, it was not meant to sabotage the fund-raiser?” Mr. Olsen asked.
“I’m not sure,” I told him. “It’s just a hunch, but I don’t think these incidents have anything to do with the fund-raiser. The pranks are rather childish. If someone wanted to sabotage Saturday’s tea, why not break into the Faynes’ home and destroy the centerpieces and baked goods Mrs. Fayne has stored there?”
There was a brief silence after I posed this question. No one said a word. The only sound was the steady downpour of rain outside and the occasional rumble of thunder. I really wanted to have a look around the old place and see if anybody was getting inside through a back door or window somewhere. But the weather wasn’t cooperating.
“Does anyone live here with you?” I asked, deciding to pursue another angle. “Any employees?”
“We have only two people working for us so far,” Mrs. Olsen said, again passing me the plate of cookies. “I’ve already told you about Emily.”
“She’s a timid little thing,” Mr. Olsen said. “Emily’s quite convinced that a ghost is responsible for all that’s been happening. She told us that she’s heard it more than once and insists that she saw it too in the hallway upstairs. She seems sincerely frightened.”
“Juan Tabo comes several times a week to do the yard work,” Mrs. Olsen went on. “He’s a rather surly young man, but he keeps the grounds looking quite lovely, and his garden shed is neat and tidy. He’s very reliable, too, and always shows up on time, rain or shine.”
“I’d like to speak with both of them,” I told the Olsens. “And I’d like to have a look around the place. Obviously I’m not going to be able to search the grounds for clues this afternoon. I’ll start inside the house.” I rose to my feet. There was no time to waste.
“Do you keep any valuables here?”
“No, just the usual sort of things—the televisions, a camera, the computer,” Mr. Olsen said, hauling his lanky frame from his chair.
“My mother’s silverware,” Mrs. Olsen put in. “When you look around, what are you expecting to find?”
“I’m not expecting to find anything in particular,” I said, placing my empty cup and saucer on a small side table.
“Nancy wants to look for clues,” George explained.
“There’s also the possibility that one of your employees is responsible for these pranks,” I said, looking at the couple. They both frowned when I mentioned this.
“I really don’t think—” Mrs. Olsen’s statement ended abruptly and with a gasp as the lights blinked out, plunging the entire house in sudden darkness. Before anyone could say a word, the silence was pierced by a woman’s terrified scream!
3
Deadly Danger
Who was that?” I demanded, stooping down for my purse. I quickly retrieved my car keys, which had a tiny flashlight attached to the key ring. This little tool had come in pretty handy on several occasions. I flicked it on and stood up. “Where did that scream come from?” I asked.
“I think it was Emily,” Mrs. Olsen stammered. “She’s in the kitchen.”
“Lead the way to the kitchen, Mr. Olsen,” I urged, “and hurry!”
The scream had been awful. I feared the worst. I glanced at George, and even in the gloom I could see the tension on her face. She was worried too.
My heart was pounding as I hurried along behind Mr. Olsen. George and Mrs. Olsen followed me. When we all reached the kitchen, Emily Spradling was alive and well, standing on her own two feet. The gleam of my flashlight revealed her to be a middle-aged woman in a dark dress and an apron. Her brown hair was pulled back in a limp ponytail. She clutched her chest with one hand and clung to the kitchen counter with the other.
“Emily, are you all right?” Mrs. Olsen asked, rushing forward to steady her frightened employee.
“The ghost. It was … there!” She pointed to what looked like a small broom closet. While Mr. Olsen rummaged through the kitchen cabinets retrieving chunky pillar candles and matches, I yanked open the door to the little closet.
“It’s a dumbwaiter!” I declared. I stepped aside so George could have a look at the small elevator that was used in the old days to send food to the rooms upstairs. I’d seen these contraptions in old houses before, and I poked my head in, wondering if it would bear my weight.
George hissed in my ear, “Don’t even think about getting in there, Nancy Drew.”
I shrugged. “You saw the ghost in here?” I asked, turning to Emily.
The woman, wide-eyed with fear, nodded. “I saw the dumbwaiter move—right before the lights went out.”
“But you didn’t actually see the ghost,” I pressed.
“I heard it—in there,” Emily insisted, pointing to the dumbwaiter.
I frowned and turned back to examine the dumbwaiter.
George whispered, “If anything happens to you, you could end up in the hospital—or worse. Then who would solve this case before Saturday?” she asked.
I reluctantly gave up the idea of cramming myself into the dumbwaiter and going from floor to floor looking for the intruder. George was right. I had to be careful. A lot of people were depending on me.
“It is large enough for a person to get into,” I said. “A young teenager or even a small man or woman could get from floor to floor in here.”
“It was a ghost,” Emily insisted with a shudder. Then she started to cry. As Mrs. Olsen talked to her in soothing tones and helped her to a chair at the kitchen table, I glanced at George, who wrinkled her nose slightly. She was thinking the same thing I was: Emily was not a good witness.
“Mr. Olsen, is the electricity off in the entire neighborhood or just here in your house?” I asked, steering the conversation in a different direction.
Mr. Olsen, who’d finished lighting candles, replied, “There’s one quick way to find out.” Picking up the large flashlight he’d found in a kitchen drawer, he made his way to the dining room and peered out the window. I stood in the doorway watching him and turned off my own miniflashlight.
“The streetlamp is on, and I can see lights from the Williams’ house down the road,” he called out. “Looks like this place is the only one without electricity.”
“Okay,” I said, “then we’d better take a look at your fuse box.”
“Do you want to call the police?” George asked, turning to me first and then the Olsens.
Just then the back door of the kitchen opened. A young Hispanic man wearing jeans and a red windbreaker stepped in through the door. He was soaking wet and slightly breathless, as though he’d been running. He wiped his muddy boots on the mat and removed his St. Louis Cardinals ball cap. “Mr. Olsen, I can’t work in this downpour,” he complained. “I’ll come back tomorrow.”
“This is the gardener, Juan Tabo,” Mr. Olsen said, turning to me.
When Mr. Olsen introduced George and me, Juan scowled slightly. Looking at me, he said, “You’re the girl detective. I’ve read about you in the newspapers.”
“Nice watch,” I said, glancing at his left wrist. “Hope it didn’t get wet.”
Without taking his eyes off my face, Juan jerked the sleeves of his jacket down over his wrists. “I’ll see you tomorrow then,” he said, turning to Mr. Olsen. Before I could ask him if he’d seen anybody on the grounds, he was out the door and gone.
“Friendly fellow,” George said sarcastically.
“Don’t you think it?
??s odd that he didn’t even comment on the fact that we’re sitting here in the kitchen with the candles lit and no electricity?” I asked. George nodded.
“Do you want me to call the police or not?” she asked again.
Mrs. and Mr. Olsen looked at each other and shook their heads. “And tell them what? That Emily thought she heard a ghost in the dumbwaiter?” Mr. Olsen asked.
“It was a ghost!” Emily insisted with a watery sniff.
“I think someone is or was in your house. He or she could still be hiding here somewhere. Exactly where does the dumbwaiter go?” I asked.
“Down to the basement and all the way up to the third floor,” Mrs. Olsen replied. “It will come in handy when we have paying guests who want breakfast in bed.”
“I want to look around,” I said. “George, take a look at the fuse box, would you? And call Hannah—tell her I’ll be late for dinner.”
“Sure thing, Nancy,” George said. “I’d better call my mom, too.”
“If you want to go upstairs to look around, I’ll come with you,” Mr. Olsen volunteered. “Carol, you can show George the fuse box.”
“I want to go home,” Emily whined. “My husband won’t like it, me working here … with ghosts and all.”
“You don’t want to drive home in this downpour, do you?” Mrs. Olsen said. “As soon as the rain lets up some, you can go home early. I wish I could make you a good strong cup of hot tea,” she lamented. “But without electricity, there’s no way to heat the water.”
“Juan went home, and I’m going home too,” Emily insisted. She shoved the chair away from the table, stood up, and quickly retrieved her purse from the utility room off the kitchen. Giving a sniff, she left the house through the back door, holding an umbrella over her head.
“We’ll be back shortly,” I said to George and Mrs. Olsen. I was eager to see if someone might still be in the house. I could question Emily another time, when she was calmer. Turning to Mr. Olsen, I flicked my miniflashlight on again and said, “Lead the way.”
We went upstairs, checking out both the second and third floors. I kept wondering how the intruder got into the house without being seen. I figured he had access to every floor using the dumbwaiter.