A Will to Survive (10 page)

“Could be,” Frank replied. “If so, that moves Carl and Bruce to the head of the suspect list. They had more to do directly with Parent than any of the others.”

“Why don't we give them a test?” Joe suggested. “We can go ask them about what Parent was like. While we're talking to them, we'll drop words like ‘jewel' and ‘diamond' into the conversation.”

“And see how they react,” Frank said. “Sure. It's worth a try.”

He glanced out the window. Carl was trimming hedges on the far side of the reflecting pool. “We can start right away,” Frank added.

• • •

It was almost dinnertime. Joe and Frank sat on the grass near the front door. They were waiting for Callie, who had spent the afternoon leading tours of the center's marshlands.

“I'd say the last couple of hours were a waste,” Joe observed. “What did we find out? Walter Parent was an oddball. Duh! And neither Carl nor
Bruce blinked when you called Parent a diamond in the rough.”

Frank smiled. “I nearly cracked up when you started talking about your friend Jules,” he said.

“Was I too subtle?” Joe asked. “I figured, guilty knowledge is guilty knowledge.”

“No, that was fine,” Frank said. “I just—”

He broke off. Tanya was at the front door, beckoning to them. When they went up to her, she said, “A telephone call for you. Take it in my office.”

Frank switched on the speakerphone. A muffled voice said, “Look under the seat of the summerhouse. Something you want is there.”
Click.

“Summerhouse?” Frank asked Tanya.

“An old wooden structure on Pater's Bluff,” Tanya told him. “It has a fine view over the bay, but the bluff falls very sharply to the water. We're keeping the area closed to the public until we can install protective railings along the trail.”

“We'd better check out this tip,” Frank told Joe. “How do we get there, Tanya?”

Tanya traced the route to Pater's Bluff on a map of the grounds. “Be careful,” she said as they left.

The Hardys easily followed Tanya's directions. They turned off Red Ribbon Trail onto an unmarked side path. The bay came into sight. The wakes of powerboats and water-skiers crisscrossed the blue water.

Joe understood why Tanya kept this path off-limits to visitors. It led right along the edge of the
bluff. Leaning over, he could see the narrow beach and surf—damp rocks sixty feet below.

“There's the summerhouse,” Frank said. The rustic building perched at the very tip of a protruding section of the bluff, with views on three sides. “You realize this is a trap.”

“Sure,” Joe replied. “Why don't we leave the path before we get there and come on it from the other direction? Maybe we can get a look at whoever's waiting to ambush us.”

“Lead on,” Frank said, with an ironic bow.

Joe edged past him. He had taken only a few steps when he felt the ground collapse under him. Caught off balance, he started to tumble down the steep bluff to the deadly rocks far below.

“Frank, look out!” Joe shouted as he fell through the hidden gap in the cliffside path. He twisted desperately, reaching out for something—
anything
—to cling to. The groping fingers of his right hand closed on the dead branch of a small tree. With a crack like a rifle shot, it broke off, sending him backward down the steep bluff.

One glimpse above him showed Joe that his warning shout had come too late. Frank, too, had stumbled through the gap in the path. He was a dozen feet higher than Joe, sliding headfirst down the sandy slope on his back.

Joe's shoulder slammed into an outcropping of rock. The impact slowed his fall for a moment. Instantly, the flexibility Joe had gained from years of practicing jump shots and karate kicks came to
his aid. He flung his legs outward in a backward somersault and wrapped his arms around the rock.

The sharp edges of the rock dug into his bare forearms, but he pushed the pain aside. Using his powerful thigh and calf muscles, he forced the toes of his hiking boots deep into the side of the bluff. He reached out his left hand and grabbed a scrubby bush.

Just in time, Joe thought with relief. Frank was sliding past him. Joe stretched out and snagged Frank's forearm with his right hand. “Take my arm,” he shouted. “Quick!”

Frank's fingers closed tightly just above Joe's wrist. Two seconds later, Joe was struggling to stop one hundred seventy pounds of plunging mass with one arm. It felt as if his shoulder were coming apart. Then Frank managed to find a toehold himself. The pressure eased.

Joe caught his breath and looked upward. He had climbed much more challenging rock faces in the past. But that was with proper climbing gear and a belaying line in case he slipped.

“Joe?” Frank called. “I'm letting go of your arm. I think I see a possible route up.”

“I'll follow you,” Joe replied, as he released his grip on his brother. Kidding, he added, “That way, if I need to, I can always catch you again.”

“Thanks,” Frank deadpanned. “My self-confidence needed a boost like that.”

The scramble up the slope to the safety of the path took more than ten minutes. It left both Hardys
panting and drenched with sweat. Frank stripped off his Shorewood Nature Center T-shirt and used it to wipe his forehead. It left a broad streak of dirt.

“I noticed something just now,” Joe said. “A torn plastic trash bag.”

“Litterbugs,” Frank said. “They're the worst.”

“Yeah?” Joe retorted. “Not as bad as somebody who'd dig a pit under a path next to a cliff.”

“So that's it.” Frank stared down into the gap in the path. “He dug a hole in the path. Then he stretched a trash bag across, held up by sticks, and sprinkled a thin layer of dirt on top to disguise it. Quick, simple . . . and almost deadly.”

“You want to see deadly?” Joe said through clenched teeth. “Hang around till I get my hands on the turkey who did it.”

Working together, Joe and Frank dragged logs and brush to block the path on both sides of the gap. Then they hiked back to the center. Callie saw them come in and hurried over.

“I was about to come hunt for you guys,” she said. Her eyes widened as she saw their scratched skin and ripped clothing. “What happened to you two?”

Frank told her about the trap that had almost caught him and Joe.

“I know that path!” Callie exclaimed. “It's scary enough without any pits dug in it. We'd better let Tanya know about this right away.”

The three went down the corridor to Tanya's office. Frank had the impression that a door farther along closed quickly as they came into view.

When the Hardys told Tanya what had happened, she was horrified. “This has gone far enough,” she announced. “I cannot have you put yourselves in such danger. You must drop the investigation at once.”

“That's doing exactly what the bad guy wants us to do,” Joe protested.

“So be it,” Tanya replied. “I can't bear to be responsible for anything that might happen to you.”

“You won't be,” Joe pointed out. “If something happens to us, the one who's responsible is the one who made it happen.”

“Anyway,” Frank added, “we hope to catch him before he can do anything more. You heard that phone call. Did anything about it strike you?”

“No, nothing in particular,” she said, after a moment's thought.

Joe pointed to the Caller ID unit on Tanya's desk. “You didn't notice the number the call came from, did you?”

She shook her head. “I'm sorry. We installed that very recently. I'm not yet accustomed to checking it.”

Her eyes widened. “You know, the person who came to install it said something about a record of incoming calls. Do you suppose . . . ?”

It took Tanya five minutes to locate the manual for the unit. It took her, plus Joe, Frank, and Callie, another ten minutes to figure out how to access the unit's memory function. Finally they pushed the correct sequence of keys and read off the number.

“But . . .” Tanya said. “I don't understand.
That isn't an outside number. It's a secondary line we have here at the center. It serves the garage and the maintenance building.”

“You mean anyone can just walk into the garage and make a call?” Callie asked.

“Oh, no,” Tanya replied. “Those areas are far too open. You have to use a code to call out from those phones. Oh—I see,” she added, in a changed voice.

“Who knows the code?” Frank asked.

“I do,” Tanya said. “At least, I have it written down somewhere. And Bruce. And of course Carl. That's the line he uses most often, since it serves his shop.”

“It's too obvious,” Callie murmured. “I think he's being framed.”

“Maybe,” Frank replied. He asked Tanya, “Does Carl know about this Caller ID unit? Would he realize that the number could be traced?”

Tanya shrugged. “I doubt it. He is—how shall I put it?—not very comfortable with electronic equipment.”

Joe and Frank exchanged a glance filled with meaning.

“I think we'd better take a look around Carl's workshop,” Frank said. “Do you know if he's still there?”

Tanya glanced at her desk clock. “He is supposed to be finished for the day. However, he mentioned to me that he had some work to finish in the nursery.”

She rummaged through one of her desk drawers. “Here are the keys to the workshop,” she said,
handing them to Frank. “I hope you find that your suspicions are misplaced. Callie, would you mind staying a moment? I need to talk to you.”

Joe and Frank left the building and walked across the staff parking lot. Carl's workshop was a rather plain one-story brick building on the far side of the garage and stable complex. A line of evergreens hid it from the main house. Frank found the right key and unlocked the door.

As he stepped inside, Joe smelled a blend of machine oil, wood shavings, and lemon. He looked around the big room. To his right was a long maple workbench. The tool rack on the wall behind it held an assortment of hammers, chisels, and screwdrivers, arranged neatly by size. A table saw, drill press, router, and wood lathe completed the woodworking area. The other side of the room was devoted to metalworking and was just as well equipped and well maintained.

“There's the phone,” Frank said. He went over to an old office desk piled high with papers.
“Joe,
look at this.”

Joe joined Frank and peered at the telephone. “Those smudges on the handset were made by a rubber glove,” he said. “And look, you can sort of make out the pattern there. I'd bet they're the same as the impression we found on the display case the other day.”

Frank had opened the top drawer of the desk. “So would I,” he said. He pulled a pair of yellow
rubber gloves from the drawer and showed Joe the fingertip of one.

“Someone may have planted them there,” Joe pointed out. “Why would Carl try to keep his fingerprints off his own phone? It's only normal for them to be there. Besides, maybe he happened to be wearing rubber gloves when the phone rang and he just didn't take them off.”

“It's possible,” Frank said. “Though I might be more convinced if we were talking about gardeners' gloves. These are kitchen gloves.”

“So what's your take?” Joe asked.

Frank rubbed his chin. “What if you're not an experienced criminal?” he said slowly. “You've read books and watched TV. You know when you do something wrong, you should be careful not to leave fingerprints. You're about to make a phone call that may send a couple of snoops off a cliff. So out come the rubber gloves.”

Joe was troubled by Frank's argument. True, his first meeting with Carl had left him with a sore neck. Still, he couldn't help sort of like someone who would set up a workshop like this one and keep it up so well. He took another admiring glance around. Then he stiffened.

On the far wall was a rack of gardening tools. Every rake, hoe, and shovel was spotless. Like any really careful craftperson, Carl spent a lot of effort keeping his tools in good order. Recent sharpenings had given their working edges a faint gleam. The
wooden handles were oiled and polished. There was one exception, Joe noticed.

“Frank,” Joe said, walking over to the wall. “Look at this.”

“This” was a short-handled spade with a blade that curved to a point. The edge was dull. Little clumps of sand clung to the blade. Joe took a few grains and rubbed them between his thumb and fingertip. They were still slightly damp.

“Used recently,” Frank said. “Since this afternoon, when we talked to Carl about Walter Parent and mentioned diamonds.”

“He could have gone over to Pater's Bluff right away and laid that trap,” Joe said. “Then, as soon as he finished, he could have come back here and made the call to Tanya's office.”

Behind them, someone kicked the door open. Joe and Frank spun around. Carl was standing in the doorway, carrying a stack of big reddish clay flowerpots. He stared as if he believed the Hardys were ghosts. Maybe he did, Joe thought. If their suspicions were right, Carl
had
just tried to kill them.

Carl's gaze shifted. He apparently noticed the yellow rubber gloves in Frank's hand. Panic flared in his eyes.

The powerful muscles in his shoulders bunched up. He lifted the stack of flowerpots high over his head. With a loud grunt of exertion and rage, he heaved the heavy clay pots at Joe and Frank.

The stack of flowerpots hurtled across the room. Frank threw himself to the floor behind the desk. The heavy pots smashed into the wall and shattered. Fragments flew everywhere. One grazed Frank's forehead, just above his right eye. He put his hand to the spot. It came away with blood on it.

“Carl's getting away!” Joe shouted. He jumped up and sprinted toward the door. “Let's get him!”