ALL NEW ALL NEW ALL NEW
Without
a
Trace
Hi, I’m Nancy Drew, and I’ve got a case to crack. Actually, make that two cases. First, a gorgeous Fabergé egg has been stolen. Who would have the heart to snatch such a precious family heirloom from someone new to town? Some housewarming that is!
And if this isn’t enough to keep me busy, someone’s running through gardens and stomping on all the zucchinis. Needless to say, it’s a big mess—in more ways than one. Especially for Mr. Safer, who is suspected of squishing the squash. I’m pretty sure Mr. Safer’s innocent. But who’s the real vegetable vandal?
Catch my next case:
A Race Against Time
ALADDIN PAPERBACKS
Simon & Schuster, New York
Cover photograph copyright © 2004 by
Michael Frost
Cover designed by Debra Sfetsios
Ages 8-12
www.kids.simonandschuster.com
0304
Let me introduce myself. I’m Nancy Drew.
My friends call me Nancy. My enemies call me a lot of other things, like “that girl who cooked my goose.” They actually sometimes speak like that, but what can you expect from criminals? See, I’m a detective. Well, not really. I mean, I don’t have a license or anything. I don’t carry a badge or a gun, in part because I wouldn’t touch a gun even if I could, and also because I’m just not old enough. But I am old enough to know when something isn’t right, when somebody’s getting an unfair deal, when someone’s done something they shouldn’t do. And I know how to stop them, catch them, and get them into the hands of the law, where they belong. I take those things seriously, and I’m almost never wrong.
My best friends, Bess and George, might not totally agree with me. They tell me I’m wrong a lot, and that they have to cover for me all of the time just to make me look good. Bess would tell you I dress badly. I call it casual. George would tell you I’m not focused. By that she’d mean that once again I forgot to fill my car with gas or bring enough money to buy lunch. But they both know I’m always focused when it comes to crime. Always.
Nancy Drew
Poached
“Oh, there you are, Nancy,” Hannah said, wiping her hands on her apron. “You just missed a phone call. The young lady sounded rather upset! Her number is on the pad.”
“Thanks.” I hurried to look at the notepad next to the phone. Simone’s name and phone number were written there in Hannah’s neat cursive. “Oh! That’s the new owner of the Peterson place. We met her this afternoon. I wonder what she wants?”
Figuring there was only one way to find out, I dialed the number. Simone answered, though she sounded so upset that I almost didn’t recognize her voice. “Nancy!” she cried when I identified myself. “I am so glad to hear from you. As you know, Pierre and I have met almost no one here in River Heights yet, and I didn’t know where else to turn.”
“What is it, Simone?” I asked anxiously. The worried crackle in her voice told me that something was wrong—very wrong.
“It’s my Fabergé egg,” Simone replied. “I walked into the living room and noticed that it’s gone!”
#1 Without a Trace
#2 A Race Against Time
#3 False Notes
#4 High Risk
#5 Lights, Camera . . .
#6 Action!
#7 The Stolen Relic
#8 The Scarlet Macaw Scandal
#9 Secret of the Spa
#10 Uncivil Acts
#11 Riverboat Ruse
Available from Aladdin Paperbacks
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
First Aladdin Paperbacks edition March 2004
Copyright © 2004 by Simon & Schuster, Inc.
ALADDIN PAPERBACKS
An imprint of Simon & SchusterChildren’s Publishing Division
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com
All rights reserved, including the right of
reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
NANCY DREW and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
NANCY DREW: GIRL DETECTIVE is a trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Library of Congress Control Number 2003109054
ISBN-13: 978-0-689-86566-4
ISBN-10: 0-689-86566-X
ISBN-13: 978-1-4424-5942-7 (eBook)
Contents
1 Friends and Neighbors
2 Party Plans
3 A Call for Help
4 A Stolen Heirloom
5 Leads and Clues
6 Messy Motives
7 Gathering Clues
8 The Shadowy Figure
9 Stalking the Truth
10 Connections and Opportunities
11 Accidents and Answers
12 A Taste of Friendship
Friends and Neighbors
My name is Nancy Drew. My friends tell me I’m always looking for trouble, but that’s not really true. It just seems to have a way of finding me.
Take last week, for instance. I arrived home on Friday afternoon from a volunteer luncheon and stepped into the house to hear the sound of shouting.
“. . . and if something isn’t done about this, things are going to get ugly!” The angry voice rang through the empty front hallway. “I can guarantee that!”
“Uh-oh,” I muttered, immediately on the alert. I didn’t recognize the voice, but I have a sort of sixth sense about anything odd or mysterious, and it started tingling right away. The shouting man sounded intense. Desperate, even. Definitely not business as usual for a quiet, lazy, Midwestern summer day.
I hurried toward the source of the voice: my father’s office. Dad has been both father and mother to me ever since my mom died when I was three years old, and I happen to think he’s pretty great. And I’m not the only one who thinks so. If you ask anyone in our hometown of River Heights to name the best, most honest and respected attorney in town, Carson Drew will always be at the top of their list. His main office is downtown, but he also sometimes sees clients in the cozy, wood-paneled office on the first floor of our spacious colonial house.
Tiptoeing toward the office, I brushed my shoulder-length hair out of the way and carefully pressed my ear to the door’s polished oak surface. My friends would probably call it eavesdropping. I prefer to call it staying informed.
My father was speaking now. “Let’s just settle down for a moment,” he said in his calmest, most authoritative voice. “I’m sure we can get to the bottom of this.”
“I certainly hope so!” the other man exclaimed, though his voice was a little quieter now. “If not, I’m perfectly ready to press charges. This is a violation of my rights as a tax-paying property owner.”
I tried to place the voice, which was beginning to seem familiar. It took me a second to notice the sound of footsteps walking toward the door. I jumped back just in time to avoid falling on my face as the door swung open into the office.
“Nancy!” My father raised an eyebrow in my direction as he exited his office, obviously a little displeased to find me lurking in the hallway. A portly, well-dressed man walked out after him, his wavy gray hair in a mess, and beads of sweat dotting his brow. Dad gestured toward him. “You know our neighbor, Bradley Geffington.”
“Oh, right!” I exclaimed as the familiar voice clicked into place in my mind. Not only does Bradley Geffington live a couple of blocks away, but he manages the local bank where Da
d and I have our accounts. “Er, that is, of course I know him. Nice to see you, Mr. Geffington.”
“Hello, Nancy.” Bradley Geffington shook my hand, though he still seemed distracted and a little annoyed. He glanced over at my father. “I’m not going to rest until I get to the bottom of this, Carson,” he said. “If Harold Safer is behind the damage to my property, he’s going to pay. Mark my words.”
I blinked in surprise. Harold Safer is another homeowner in our quiet, tree-lined riverside neighborhood. He also owns the local cheese shop. He’s a little eccentric, but generally mild mannered and well liked.
“Excuse me, Mr. Geffington,” I said. “If you don’t mind my asking, just what is it that Mr. Safer has done to you?”
Bradley Geffington shrugged. “I don’t mind at all,” he said. “I want everyone to know, so no one else will have to go through this. He demolished my zucchini!”
“Your zucchini?” I repeated. It wasn’t quite what I was expecting to hear. “Um, what do you mean?”
“Yes, why don’t you give Nancy all the details?” Dad spoke up. “She’s the amateur detective in the family. Maybe she can help you get to the bottom of things. Then we can figure out how to proceed from there.”
Dad sounded slightly bemused. I guess you’d have to know Dad as well as I do to have picked up on it. He always takes his cases very seriously—he knows his clients count on him to help them in their darkest hours. But after all his famous trials, huge lawsuits, and important summaries in front of grand juries, I’m sure he never expected anyone to ask him to initiate a suit over zucchini!
Luckily Bradley Geffington didn’t seem to notice a thing. “Yes, I’ve heard that Nancy has a certain talent for solving mysteries.” He gazed at me thoughtfully. “Very well, then. Here are the facts. I had a thriving zucchini patch going in my garden as of Tuesday afternoon. Five plants. At least half a dozen beautiful, perfect zucchinis almost ready to pick. I could almost taste them grilled and sautéed and baked into zucchini bread. . . .” He clasped his hands together, smacked his lips, and then shook his head sadly.
“What happened?” I asked.
“I woke up Wednesday morning and headed outside to water the garden before work as usual. That’s when I found them—my zucchini. Or at least, what was left of them.” His voice shook slightly and he closed his eyes, clearly upset at the memory. “It looked as if someone had taken a club to them. Little green bits and pieces everywhere!”
“That’s terrible.” It did sound like vandalism of some sort, although I couldn’t imagine why anyone would bother to vandalize a bunch of zucchini. “But what makes you think it was Mr. Safer who did it?”
Bradley Geffington rolled his eyes. “He’s been moaning and complaining all summer about how my tomato cages block the view of his blasted sunsets.”
I hid a smile. Aside from selling an amazing variety of cheese in his shop, Harold Safer is well known around town for two things: his twin obsessions for Broadway theater and sunsets. He travels east to New York City a couple of times every year and spends a week or two seeing every Broadway show he possibly can. And he built a huge deck on the back of his house, overlooking the river, for the express purpose of watching the sun set over the bluffs each and every evening.
However, Harold Safer is also well known for being kind and sensitive. He even rescues stranded worms from the sidewalk in front of his house after it rains. I couldn’t imagine him taking a club to anything, let alone someone else’s garden.
“Okay,” I said tactfully. “But if it was your tomatoes that are troubling him, why would he attack your zucchini?”
“Don’t ask me!” Bradley Geffington exclaimed. “You’re the detective—you figure it out. All I know is that my whole zucchini crop is ruined, and he’s the only one who could have done it.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to go. My lunch break is almost over, and I want to stop by the garden center and see if they still have any zucchini plants.”
Dad and I walked him to the front door. As Dad closed the door behind our neighbor, he glanced at me. “Do you mind looking into this?” he asked. “I know it’s a bit silly, but I hate to think of something like this coming between two good neighbors.”
I nodded, realizing he was right. Besides, if there really was someone wandering around the neighborhood smashing things with a mallet, it was probably best to find out who and why.
“I’ll do what I can,” I promised. “Bess and George are supposed to come by any minute now. We were supposed to go shopping, but I’m sure they’ll be willing to help out with a little sleuthing instead.”
As if on cue, the doorbell rang. I hurried to open it and found my two best friends standing there.
Even though they’re cousins, it never ceases to amaze me how different Bess Marvin and George Fayne are from each other. If you looked up the word girl in the dictionary, you’d find Bess’s picture there to illustrate it. She’s pretty, blond, and curvy in all the right places, with dimples in both cheeks and a wardrobe full of flowery dresses and lots of delicate jewelry that sets off her perfect features. But angular, athletic-looking George prefers jeans to jewelry. She keeps her dark hair cut short and is quick to correct anyone who calls her by her given name, Georgia.
Dad greeted my friends, then returned to his office. As I led Bess and George into the living room, I quickly filled them in on the zucchini smasher.
“You’re kidding, right?” George commented in her usual blunt way. “Are you really so desperate for a mystery that you’re going to investigate this?”
Bess giggled. “Be nice, George,” she chided. “Poor Nancy hasn’t had a burglar to bust or a kidnapper to capture in . . . what? At least a couple of weeks? Who can blame her for being desperate?”
“I know, I know,” I said with a smile. “It’s not much of a case. But I want to figure out what’s really going on before it causes trouble between Mr. Geffington and Mr. Safer. It would be terrible if they actually went to court over something so foolish. This could ruin their friendship forever.”
“That’s true,” Bess agreed.
“Good,” I said. “Does that mean you’re going to help me?”
Bess looked a little disappointed; she loves shopping. But then she smiled gamely. “I suppose so,” she said.
George nodded. “Besides,” she added with a sly grin. “Maybe investigating the Case of the Vegetable Vandal will help keep Nancy away from any real trouble!”
A few minutes later the three of us found ourselves seated in the comfortably elegant living room of Mrs. Cornelius Mahoney, who lives down the street from Bradley Geffington. Two other neighbors, Ms. Thompson and Mrs. Zucker, were there as well. As soon as we’d arrived on her doorstep, Mrs. Mahoney had graciously insisted that we come in out of the hot sun and join them for tea.
“There you go, girls,” Mrs. Mahoney said in her thin, reedy voice, her kind hazel eyes twinkling beneath her neat gray bangs as she set a tray of drinks in front of us. “Some ice tea for a warm day. And please do help yourselves to the cookies.” She gestured to a huge platter of baked goodies on the polished mahogany coffee table.
“Now this is what I call investigating,” George whispered to me as she leaned forward to help herself to several cookies. No matter how many sweets George eats, her slim frame never gains an ounce—a fact that is a constant source of irritation to her curvy cousin.
Ellen Zucker, thirtysomething and attractive, smiled at me and stirred her tea. “So Nancy, how are your father and Hannah? Please tell Hannah I really enjoyed her recipe for . . . excuse me a moment.” Mrs. Zucker stood and hurried toward the open front window. “Owen!” she called out. “I told you, if you’re going to play out there by yourself you need to stay away from the street. Why don’t you play in the backyard for a while instead?”
My friends and I exchanged an amused glance. Energetic four-year-old Owen Zucker had been playing baseball in the driveway when we’d arrived. All of us had taken our turns baby-sitting him in
the past, and we all knew it only took a moment to lose track of the active, energetic little boy.
Mrs. Zucker sighed and sat down again. “Poor Owen,” she said. “I’m afraid he must get terribly bored following me around from house to house like this. I’ve been out visiting throughout the neighborhood all week raising money for the Anvil Day fireworks display.”
I smiled, knowing that Mrs. Zucker had come to the right house for that. Mrs. Mahoney is one of the wealthiest people in town. Her late husband was the only descendant of Ethan Mahoney, who founded the Mahoney Anvil Corporation back in the early nineteenth century. The anvil business is long gone, except for the town’s annual Anvil Day celebration, but the Mahoney fortune is bigger than ever. When Cornelius was alive, most of that fortune went toward classic cars and obscure financial schemes. According to all sources, old Cornelius was a stingy, mean-spirited man who never revealed a kind or likable side in public. But Mrs. Mahoney is a generous soul who is beloved by all who meet her. Her bountiful contributions to various charities have gone a long way toward repairing the reputation of the Mahoney name.
“I imagine Owen knows how to entertain himself,” Bess commented, glancing out the window as the little boy scurried around the corner of the house, ball and bat in hand. “I remember the last time I baby-sat him—he decided he wanted to make cookies, and had everything in the refrigerator out on the floor before I could get across the kitchen to stop him.”
“That sounds like my Owen!” Mrs. Zucker exclaimed as the other women laughed.