High-Speed Showdown (4 page)

“It's a simple question,” Joe said. “Why not answer it?”

Angelo stepped forward, with his chin jutting
out. “Watch it, Connie,” he said. “These guys are up to something. I've heard rumors around school that they're amateur detectives or something. I think they're trying to pin something on us.”

Connie gave Frank a narrow-eyed look. “It's that leaflet you showed me before, isn't it? You're trying to make out that
I
sent it. Well, I already told you I didn't, and that's the last word I'm going to say about it. Now you'll have to excuse us—we've got important work to do.”

Head high, she walked right past Frank and Joe and went back to handing leaflets to people in the crowd. After dividing a dirty look equally between the two Hardys, Angelo followed her.

“There go my chances of winning the ‘Most Popular' title,” Joe muttered. “What now?”

Frank glanced at his watch. “We've got half an hour before our ride with Dennis,” he observed. “Why don't we check out some of the exhibits? I'd like to get more of a feel for what's happening.”

They crossed the street to the fairgrounds and started down the first of the rows. The booths were a strange mixture. All sorts of food was available, from fried potato curls and Pennsylvania Dutch funnel cakes to Middle Eastern pastries and Oriental spring rolls. Frank was sure he had seen some of the same booths at the Founders Day street fair a few weeks earlier.

Some of the merchandise booths looked very
familiar, too. There were racks of CDs and video-cassettes, and piles of unlabeled T-shirts and jeans supposedly from a famous nationwide chain. In front of one tiny booth, a man was demonstrating a miracle sponge mop. He kept talking nonstop, even though none of the passersby paused to listen.

Other booths, however, had a real nautical flavor. One was selling bright yellow raingear that looked able to keep out the fiercest North Atlantic storm. At another, earnest fairgoers were peering at finely machined propellers and asking detailed questions of the two people behind the table. There was also a booth that featured a speedboat of about eighteen feet. Even strapped to a trailer, Joe thought its sleek lines and huge outboard motor made it look ready for an incredible day of cruising and waterskiing.

“Frank, look at this,” Joe said, dragging him toward a table of rugged-looking electronic gear. “Would you believe a handheld GPS receiver!”

“Great,” Frank replied, gazing down at a gadget that looked something like a cross between a personal TV and a cellular phone. “Is that anything like a wide receiver? Or a tailback?”

Joe gave him a disgusted look. “Ha, ha,” he said. “Don't you know what that little package can do? It'll tell you where you are, anywhere on earth. Just push a button, and you can read out your exact latitude and longitude, within a few dozen
yards. It works off signals from satellites. I think we ought to have one for the van. Can you imagine how great that would be if we ever got lost?”

Frank gave a snort. “With what that gizmo must cost, we could buy an awful lot of compasses and maps,” he pointed out. “Still, you're right. It is pretty amazing.”

“Admiring all the cool stuff?” Dave said, from behind Frank's shoulder.

“Oh, hi,” Joe said. “I'm really amazed at it all.”

“I know,” Dave replied. “Some of the boats I've seen are crammed with enough electronics to stock a store. GPS, VHF radio, radar, depth finders, loran . . . you name it. I know one guy who has to have the latest of everything. He's thrown out more gear than most people could afford to buy, just because it was last year's model. I doubt if he'd know how to work half the gadgets.”

“That reminds me of something I wanted to ask you about,” Joe said. “How do people afford to race these boats? Just having one of them trucked from one race to another must cost a fortune.”

Dave nodded. “Believe me, it does. That's why a lot of offshore racers are people with money. Some are like Dennis Shire. It's his company that sponsors his boat. And Barry Batten is bankrolled by a group of corporate sponsors. They get to have big decals with the name of their product on the side
of his boat. When he wins, millions of people see them on TV and in newspapers.”

“Just like racing cars,” Frank observed. “You know, I used to think that they put those names of sparkplugs and motor oils on the cars because those were the brands used in the cars. Then I saw one with the name of a soft drink on it, in big letters. That blew my theory. No way did that car run on cola!”

Dave grinned. “Of course, there are cash prizes for winning boats,” he continued. “Those really help cover your costs . . . but only
if
you win. The same goes for betting. You've got to win for it to do you any good.”

“Betting? On boat races?” Joe said, surprised.

“Sure. Sports betting is a big business, where it's legal. Nevada, for instance. And offshore racing is as much a sport as any other,” Dave replied. “Of course, even a big national meet like this one doesn't attract the kind of bets you'd get on the Super Bowl or the America's Cup. Still, I'm sure that a lot of bucks will change hands on Saturday, depending on who wins.”

Frank said, “I heard a rumor that somebody was threatening to sabotage the meet. Do you think there's anything to it?”

Dave shifted uncomfortably. After a long hesitation, he said, “Yeah, I heard that, too. But you know what I think? I figure people are spreading those rumors because they hope to spook their
rivals—you know, psych them out so they won't do their best.”

Hearing this, Frank felt something that was a cross between irritation and disappointment. If the supposed sabotage was nothing more than a campaign of psychological warfare, he and Joe were wasting their time. Trying to unnerve your opponents might not be very sportsmanlike, but it wasn't illegal.

“Things have been mysteriously going wrong with some of the boats, though, haven't they?” Joe asked.

“Going wrong, sure,” Dave replied. “But mysteriously? I doubt it. Look, an offshore racing boat takes a terrible beating out on the water. You hit a wave at a hundred miles an hour, you might as well be hitting a wall. And our boats aren't that sturdy, either. A question of saving weight. So what happens? Things break. Last spring I was in a race with six other boats, and not one of us finished in good shape. Three didn't finish at all. Sabotage? No way—just the breaks, that's all.”

“Hey, Frank, we'd better go,” Joe said. “It's nearly two. Dennis Shire is taking us for a ride,” he added to Dave.

“Way cool,” Dave said.
“Adelita
is really fast. Maybe not quite fast enough to beat Barry, but fast. I'll walk you out to the dock.”

They edged through the crowd to the marina entrance and showed their passes to the guard. As
they walked out toward Dennis's slip, Dave pointed out some of the boats that would be contending for prizes in their various classes.

“Look,” Joe said in a low voice. “Isn't that Batten up ahead?”

Frank looked. The top contender had changed into a high-visibility orange jumpsuit. The guy walking next to him was wearing a matching jumpsuit and carrying two bright orange crash helmets.

“They must be going out for a practice run,” Dave remarked. “That's his throttleman, Chuck Aurora, with him.”

At that moment, Joe let out a startled exclamation.

Up ahead, Batten's throttleman was bent almost double, clutching his middle. He let go of the two helmets, which echoed hollowly as they fell onto the dock. One of them rolled slowly across the wooden planks and over the edge. Just as Frank heard the splash, the stricken throttleman let out a groan and collapsed.

Batten looked around and spotted Dave and the Hardys. “Hey!” he shouted. “Come help me! I think Chuck's been poisoned!”

5 Suspicious Shrimp

Joe sprinted along the dock and knelt down next to the groaning throttleman. Putting his arm around the man's shoulders, he demanded, “Are you all right? Do you need a doctor?”

“Stomach,” the man gasped, looking at him with pleading eyes. “Cramps. It's killing me.”

Joe glanced around. Frank and Dave were rushing up to help. Barry Batten watched for a moment, then moved over to the edge of the dock. What was he up to? Joe kept an eye on him, as Batten picked up a boat hook and bent down to fish for something in the harbor.

“Got it!” Barry said. He straightened up. The orange helmet that had fallen in the water was suspended from the end of the boat hook.

“What's wrong?” Frank asked Joe, studying Chuck's pale face.

“Stomach cramps,” Joe replied. “We ought to get help for him.”

Dave said, “I'll go tell the guards to call the first aid squad.” He turned and started for the head of the dock.

Barry came over, the dripping helmet dangling by his side. “You two again! Every time I've had a problem today, you guys were around. I'm starting to wonder if maybe you're bad luck.”

Joe thought of saying that Barry obviously brought his own problems with him. Then he reminded himself that he and Frank were in the middle of an investigation. Carrying on a feud with one of the important figures in the case would not be very professional.

Instead, he asked, “What was it your friend swallowed? The paramedics will need to know.”

“Why ask me?” Barry replied crossly.

“You're the one who said he was poisoned,” Frank pointed out. “With what?”

Barry reddened.
“I
don't know. It just looked that way to me, that's all.”

“It must have been that shrimp salad we ate at the inn,” Chuck said faintly. “I told you it tasted funny. You're lucky you didn't have any.”

“I think somebody
put
something in that shrimp salad,” Barry said, glaring at Joe and Frank. “And
I think it was meant for me. But don't worry, I'm going to be on my guard from now on.”

“Barry, that's crazy,” Chuck objected.

Barry raised one eyebrow. “Is it? Remember, I carried both our plates to the table, then went back for iced tea. Anybody could have put something in your food, thinking it was mine.”

“Can you think of any reason for somebody to do that?” Frank asked.

“To keep me from winning, what else?” Barry replied. “Somebody must have figured out that he can't hope to beat me by playing fair. Or maybe he's working for some bookie who took a lot of bets on me and wants to make sure I don't win so that he doesn't have to pay off.”

“Aw, come on, Barry,” Chuck started to say.

“Or, hey, what about that nut who threatened me?
She
came through the dining room,” Barry continued. “You know, the whale lover. That's why she was so sure I'm not going to win.”

“Did either of you see anyone stop by your table?” Frank asked.

Chuck shook his head.

Barry hesitated and rubbed his square jaw. “Well, no,” he said, with what sounded like regret. “But they would have waited until my back was turned, wouldn't they?”

Joe heard running footsteps and looked around. Dave was returning, with two uniformed medics.
One, a man, was wheeling a stretcher. The other, a woman, was carrying a first aid chest. Joe stood up and backed away from Chuck to give them room.

The medics checked over Chuck's condition, then lifted him onto the stretcher. His forehead was beaded with sweat, but Joe thought he looked better than he had just a few minutes before.

“Take it easy, pal. Don't worry about a thing,” Barry said. Then he turned abruptly to Dave. “I need a new throttleman. What do you say?”

Dave looked stunned, Joe noticed. Dave hadn't expected to be able to race at all. Now he was being offered a spot on what was probably the winning team.

“Uh . . . sure, Barry,” Dave stammered as the medics wheeled Chuck away. “Sure, great!”

Barry handed him the damp helmet. “Come on, then. I want to get some practicing in.”

He walked away without another glance at Joe and Frank. Dave gave them a dazed look and said, “Later, guys,” then followed Barry.

After a short silence, Joe said, “What a toad that Barry is. Couldn't he have waited until they'd taken Chuck away before he asked Dave?”

“I wonder what'll happen when Chuck recovers,” Frank replied. “Either he or Dave is in for a lot of grief.”

Joe looked at his brother. “I hate to say this, but you don't think Dave . . . ?”

Frank knew what Joe was getting at and shook
his head. “Poisoned Chuck to get a shot at the race? Nah. Dave seemed genuinely shocked. Besides, he'd have no guarantee that Barry wouldn't ask someone else.”

“Good,” Joe said. “Because he and Dennis strike me as the only nice guys around this competition.”

“And we're going to miss our ride in Dennis's boat,” Frank said, breaking into a sprint. “Come on!”

They found Dennis standing on the dock next to slip B-48, stroking his beard and looking irritated. Frank explained why they were late.

“That's a shame,” Dennis said. “As soon as we get back, I'll have to find out how Chuck's doing.”

Joe and Frank put on the flotation jackets and helmets he gave them. They met his throttleman, a dark-haired guy of about twenty-five named Miguel, then got their first good look at the boat.
Adelita
was big, at least as long and wide as a good-size truck. The hull was mostly white, with wavy stripes of red and green along the sides. There were just four places in the cockpit, two in front and two in back, surrounded by a Plexiglas windscreen.

Joe climbed into one of the rear seats and fastened the shoulder harness. Frank settled next to him and said, “Do you think they'll give us parachutes?”

Joe grinned. Frank was right. This felt more like
an F-16 fighter plane than a boat. Miguel fired up the two supercharged V-8 engines, and they moved slowly out of the marina into the harbor.