“Yes, I think so,” I told him. “This could be our first real lead.”
“What were you doing down there by the river, Juan?” Mr. Olsen asked.
“I go down that way with my lunch sometimes. It’s quiet in the woods,” Juan added almost apologetically. “That’s when I saw the car.”
“Did you see the owner of the vehicle too?” Bess asked.
Juan shook his head. “I saw nobody. Just the little car.”
“Thanks, Juan,” I said. “You’ve been a big help. If you see the yellow car again, will you tell me or Mr. Olsen?”
He nodded. Then, casting one more admiring glance at Bess, he returned to the garden shed to retrieve his hedge cutters and resume his work.
“Bess, when I was talking with Charlie Adams in the parking lot after lunch, he told me he’d towed a bright yellow car near here yesterday during the storm,” I said.
“You sound pretty excited, Nancy,” Bess teased.
“I am,” I admitted.
“Do you think the car that was towed is the same one that Juan saw?” Mr. Olsen asked.
“Well, bright yellow cars aren’t all that common,” I pointed out.
“Of course it could be the same car and still not have anything to do with the break-ins,” Bess said.
“That’s true,” I replied. “But I have a hunch the car—and its owner—have something to do with what’s been going on here.”
“I’ve learned never to doubt Nancy’s hunches,” Bess said, turning to Mr. Olsen.
“Will you show us the storm cellar in the woods?” I asked.
With a shrug, Mr. Olsen led the way, explaining that the old storm cellar hadn’t been used in years. The grass was still wet from yesterday’s rain, and I was glad I’d worn my hiking boots instead of my pink Converse. They would have been soaked by now.
“There it is,” Mr. Olsen said. He indicated two large wooden doors with rusty handles that seemed to cover a wide hole in the ground. Reaching for one of the handles, I gave a hard tug. The door opened with a groan.
“Looks like it hasn’t been used for quite a while,” Bess said, peering down into the darkness.
“It hasn’t,” Mr. Olsen said. “It’s supposed to have been used as a safe haven from tornados and thunderstorms, but it’s too far from the house,” he added. “And it couldn’t have been very convenient for storing homemade canned goods or surplus vegetables and fruits in the old days. One would have too far to go to fetch them. I can’t understand why they put it way out here in the first place.”
“You can see the house well enough from here,” I said, pointing. “But when we were in the yard talking to Juan, we couldn’t see this cellar. That means anyone sitting or standing here, where we are now, could watch the house without being noticed.”
“You think that’s what the owner of the yellow car has been doing?” Mr. Olsen asked.
“It seems likely,” I replied.
“But you don’t know that for sure,” he went on. “I mean, there’s no evidence.”
“Then let’s look for some,” Bess suggested.
“Just what I was about to say!” I exclaimed. “Bess, you go that way, and Mr. Olsen, you go to the left. I’ll take the footpath toward the river.”
“But what are we looking for?” Mr. Olsen asked.
“Anything that might indicate someone’s been here recently—litter, cigarette butts, footprints in the mud …,” I told him.
As we began our search, I kept my attention fixed on the ground in front of me. I was already planning to call Charlie to get a more thorough description of the yellow car he’d towed back to his shop yesterday—the one with the oddball driver, as he’d put it. There was a connection—I could feel it in my bones. I sure hoped Charlie had written down the license plate number.
Just then I noticed a bit of paper and bent down to pick it up. “What do you know?” I muttered to myself. It was a bubble gum wrapper. It looked fairly new, aside from being damp and slightly smeared with mud.
Glancing around quickly, I found a second discarded wrapper, just like the first. As I bent down to retrieve it, I heard a twig snap behind me and a footstep or two. Thinking it was Bess or Mr. Olsen, I said, “Hey, look what I’ve found!”
That’s when something came down hard on the back of my head. My knees gave way, and I crumpled to the ground.
9
Important Clues
Nancy, are you all right? Can you hear me?”
At the sound of Bess’s voice, I opened my eyes with a flutter and saw my friend’s anxious face peering closely into my own. As I regained consciousness, I became aware of the painful lump on the back of my head and realized that I was lying on the ground.
“I’ll call an ambulance!” Mr. Olsen declared, peering down at me.
“No, wait! Please don’t,” I said weakly. “I’m fine. Really.” With Bess’s help, I sat up slowly. My clothes were damp from lying in the wet grass.
“What happened, Nancy?” Bess asked. “Did you trip and fall?”
“No, someone conked me on the head,” I told her. I explored the tender spot at the back of my scalp with trembling fingers. “Ouch!” I exclaimed, pressing too hard on the lump.
“Did you see who it was?” Mr. Olsen asked.
I shook my aching head slowly. “No, I thought it was Bess coming up behind me,” I admitted. “Then—whammo!”
“I’ll take a quick look around,” Mr. Olsen declared. He hurried off deeper into the woods toward the river.
“Help me up, Bess,” I said. As I rose slowly to my feet, supported by Bess, I suddenly realized that my hands were empty. I looked around on the ground at me feet.
“Hey, do you see any bubble gum wrappers?” I asked.
Bess shot me a skeptical glance. I could tell she was wondering just how hard I’d been hit on the head. “Bubble gum wrappers?” she asked hesitantly.
“I found two of them right here,” I said. “I was bending over picking up the second one when I got clobbered.”
“No, I don’t see anything,” Bess replied, glancing around.
“That’s weird,” I muttered. “Why take the wrappers?”
“Incriminating evidence?” Bess suggested. She arched her brows. “An important clue?”
“I think you’re right,” I agreed. “Someone has been trespassing on the Olsens’ property, and whoever it is chews strawberry-flavored bubble gum.”
Mr. Olsen returned then. He was panting heavily, and I knew he’d been running. “I didn’t see anybody down that way, and no yellow car, either,” he announced. Then, noting that I was on my feet again, he asked anxiously, “Nancy, are you sure you’re all right? You might have a concussion. Or perhaps you need stitches,” he insisted.
“I’ll be fine,” I replied. But to satisfy him, I bent my head down and let Bess examine the lump. When she declared that there was no gaping wound, Mr. Olsen reluctantly quit pressing me to see a doctor.
“At least come back to the house for an ice pack and a cold drink—or hot tea, if you prefer,” he offered.
“That sounds good,” I admitted, realizing suddenly how thirsty I was. “I need to make a phone call, too, and then I want to explore your basement.”
Mr. Olsen shook his head admiringly. “You’ve got spunk, Nancy Drew! That much is certain.”
Back at the house, we found George and Mrs. Olsen laughing together while they enjoyed a snack in the kitchen. George happily informed us that the computer was working again and domestic help was on the way. But when Mrs. Olsen heard about my misadventure, the smile slipped from her face. She hovered over me with concern.
“Perhaps we should take you to the emergency room,” she suggested.
“Maybe I should drive you home,” George said with a worried frown.
“No, really, I’m fine,” I said, accepting a glass of raspberry lemonade from Mrs. Olsen. I knew they meant well, but I was beginning to get a little annoyed by everyone’s concern.
; “Who would do such a thing?” Mrs. Olsen asked fretfully.
“Could it have been Juan?” Bess asked. I shrugged and Mrs. Olsen gave a horrified gasp.
“Oh, I hope not!” she declared, looking even more concerned.
“Couldn’t have been the gardener,” George spoke up. “He’s been trimming the bushes. I could see him from the window while I was working on the computer.”
When Mr. Olsen told his wife about Juan spotting a yellow car in the woods, she gave another little gasp. “I don’t like the idea of being spied on by someone hiding in the woods,” she said nervously.
“Now, Carol,” he said soothingly. “We don’t know for sure that anyone is spying on us.”
Bess and I exchanged glances. I gave her a warning look. I didn’t want her to mention the bubble gum wrappers—at least, not yet. Mr. Olsen may have had doubts about someone watching the house, but I didn’t. I asked Mrs. Olsen if I could use the phone.
“Certainly,” she said, and indicated the wall phone. This time I got a dial tone and called Charlie Adams at the mechanic’s garage. He seemed delighted to hear from me again so soon and was more than willing to give me the name and address of the customer with the bright yellow car—as long as I promised not to tell where I’d gotten my information. He’d even written down the license plate number on the invoice.
“Is all this important, Nancy?” he asked. I could hear the hopefulness in his voice.
“Yes, very important,” I assured him.
“Glad to help,” he said with a happy sigh. “The guy sure was an oddball.”
When he said “oddball,” that reminded me of the other thing I wanted to ask him. “Hey, Charlie, you said something earlier about the weird things this guy had on the front seat of his car. What sort of things?”
Charlie rattled off a list: a golf club, pantyhose, several different-size flashlights, a small pair of binoculars.
“This may sound random, but any chance the guy was chewing gum?” I asked.
“Yeah, as a matter of fact he was, and he had a couple of packs on the dashboard and by the cup holder, too.”
“Did you notice if it was strawberry flavored?” I ventured.
“It might have been,” Charlie replied. “The packs had pink wrapping.”
I then asked the mechanic for a brief description of the “oddball” and hung up the phone after expressing my heartfelt thanks for the helpful information. Turning, I found the Olsens and Bess and George staring at me inquiringly. They all seemed to be holding their breath.
“It must be good news,” Bess declared with a smile. “Your eyes have that special gleam they get when you know you’re on the right track.”
“So what’s up with the bubble gum?” George asked.
“It is good news,” I said with a slight laugh. I explained the bit about the bubble gum wrappers and told them about Charlie’s oddball customer.
“His name is Davy Reeve and he lives in River Heights.” Turning to the Olsens, I asked, “Do you recognize that name?”
The couple shook their heads. “Like we told you before,” Mr. Olsen said, “we’re new here and really don’t know many people.”
“According to Charlie, he’s short and has a red beard,” I added.
Again Mr. and Mrs. Olsen just shook their heads.
“So, you think this Davy Reeve is the one who bopped you on the back of the head and swiped the bubble gum wrappers from your hand?” Bess asked.
I shrugged. “I’m not sure about that,” I admitted. “Neither Mr. Olsen nor his gardener saw a yellow car down by the river today.”
“But Reeve could have an accomplice,” George suggested. I nodded. “And maybe one or both of them are small enough to get into the dumbwaiter,” she ventured.
“Where is the dumbwaiter?” Bess asked.
“Over here,” George said, indicating the small contraption. “This is where Emily says she heard the ghost yesterday afternoon—in here.” George opened the door.
“A small person could get in there, I suppose,” Bess said, examining the dumbwaiter. “And it looks easy enough to operate. There’s even a manual pulley system so it can work without electricity.”
“Really?” I asked, joining Bess and George to peer into the dumbwaiter. Bess showed me how it worked. Did I mention that Bess knows all there is to know about fixing things?
“Give me a screwdriver and I’ll make sure the trespasser can’t use this anymore,” Bess assured the Olsens.
“So, the intruder could have tampered with the fuse box and slipped into the dumbwaiter without Emily noticing until it moved,” Mr. Olsen said, retrieving a screwdriver from one of the kitchen drawers and handing it to Bess.
“But how did he break in to the house in the first place?” George asked.
“I still haven’t figured that part out yet,” I admitted. “We didn’t find any trampled shrubbery around the house, and the windows haven’t been tampered with either. And—”
I stopped short, interrupted by Bess’s placing a finger to her lips and whispering, “Shush.” She then pointed to the back door.
We all turned toward the door. Mrs. Olsen clutched her husband’s arm. I made a motion for Bess and George to resume talking about the dumbwaiter while I tiptoed to the door. Grasping the knob, I turned it and pulled it open as hard and as fast as I could.
“Oh! Sorry. Ah, I—came to see Mr. Olsen. I—I—I …” Juan Tabo had been leaning so hard against the back door that he nearly fell over.
It was quite obvious to us all that he’d been eavesdropping.
10
Deep, Dark Secrets
What do you think you’re doing?” I asked icily. I glared down at Juan, who stumbled to his feet and stood up as tall as he could, trying to regain his dignity.
“I came to speak with Mr. Olsen,” he repeated, looking away in embarrassment.
“He was listening in!” George declared.
“I thought that sort of thing only happened in the movies,” Bess said with a giggle.
“What do you want, Juan?” Mr. Olsen asked gruffly.
“I came to tell you that … that … I …”
Juan gulped as I stared him down. He seemed to forget what he was going to say.
“Well?” I prompted him with a glare.
“I came to tell you that I’m done for the day,” he finally managed to say. “I’ll be back on Friday. I want to show you what I did with the debris from yesterday’s storm.”
“All right, I’ll come with you,” Mr. Olsen said, turning to go.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “Not so fast, Juan. You were eavesdropping. Why?”
Juan flushed and looked down at the kitchen floor.
“Well?” I said sternly. I wasn’t going to let him off the hook until I got an answer.
“I wanted to hear if you were talking about me,” he finally admitted.
“And what if we were?” I challenged.
“Whatever that Spradling woman has told you about me, it isn’t true!” Juan said defiantly.
Bess, George, and I exchanged glances. Talk about touchy! I thought. “What makes you think Emily Spradling has said anything about you to us?” I asked.
Juan hesitated. He looked from Mr. Olsen to Mrs. Olsen and then back at me.
“As far as I know, Emily has never spoken about you at all,” Mrs. Olsen said. She sounded a little surprised.
“Why should she?” her husband asked, addressing his question to Juan.
“The woman doesn’t like me,” Juan said. “Her husband doesn’t like me either.”
“You’ve met Mr. Spradling?” I asked.
Juan nodded. “They came into my grandmother’s restaurant once. I work there on weekends sometime.”
“What makes you think the Spradlings don’t like you?” Bess wanted to know.
Juan gave a shrug. “I can tell by the way she looks at me when I come into the kitchen,” he said, frowning. “And her husband said that if I quit my job
here at Cardinal Corners, he has a friend who wants to take my place.” Then, looking at Mr. Olsen, he added, “But I don’t want to lose my job here.”
Mr. Olsen patted him on the back reassuringly. “You’re not going to lose your job, Juan. Don’t worry.” Then, looking at me, he added, “I’ll be back soon.”
I nodded and watched the two men make their way out of the kitchen and down the back porch into the yard.
“Hmmm, I wonder if Juan’s telling the truth,” I murmured, thinking aloud.
“The fact that he was spying was definitely weird,” George said.
“Makes me wonder if we can trust anything he told us earlier,” Bess said pensively.
“Well, we know for sure that Charlie Adams towed a yellow car, and the owner of that car chews bubble gum. That’s a lead I intend to follow,” I said. “But right now I want to get down into the basement and look around. Mrs. Olsen, will you show me the way?”
“Certainly,” she said, and led us out of the kitchen to a door down the hall. At the top of the stairs, she flicked on the light and started down the steps. I thought it was pretty dim, so I pulled my trusty miniflashlight out of my pocket before descending the steps into the gloom.
“I’d feel better if you had a brighter bulb down here,” I told her.
“If you’ve got one, I’ll change it for you,” Bess offered, coming down behind me on the stairs. George followed behind her. When we reached the bottom, I shook my head. The single lightbulb dangling overhead wasn’t enough for us to thoroughly explore the basement.
“I think I have a one-hundred-watt bulb in a kitchen drawer,” Mrs. Olsen said. “I’ll go back and get it.”
While she went back upstairs to the kitchen, I snooped around the basement a bit. So did Bess and George. We poked around in the corners and peered into boxes, old suitcases, and storage trunks.
“Here’s the dumbwaiter closet,” George said. She touched a button and opened the small door. I peered inside with my small flashlight.
“Look!” I declared, aiming the beam on the inside wall. “There are muddy smudges in here.”