A Tempest and Some Teapots 4 страница

“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.

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.

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.”

“Must have been left by the intruder yesterday,” George said. I nodded. Now I knew for sure that someone had been using the dumbwaiter to get from floor to floor of the old mansion. But how did the intruder get into the dumbwaiter in the first place?

We continued our search of the basement, but there wasn’t much else to see except several shelves well stocked with canned goods, jams, and jellies and boxes of supplies like toilet paper and paper towels. All in all, it was neat and well organized.

“Hey, Nancy, look at this,” Bess declared. I turned my flashlight beam in the direction she was pointing. Several jelly jars and some cans had fallen to the concrete floor. A few of the glass jars had shattered, leaving a sticky mess.

“Someone had an accident,” Bess said. Efficient as ever, she quickly located an open roll of paper towels and began wiping up peach preserves from the floor.

“Do you think that Emily came down here, saw the so-called ghost, and dropped the jars?” George asked.

“I doubt it,” I said, watching Bess clean up. “Emily couldn’t have been carrying that many jars and cans all at one time.”

“These metal shelves look pretty sturdy to me,” Bess observed. “The jars couldn’t have fallen off by themselves.”

“Maybe someone bumped the shelves or tried moving them,” George suggested.

“I’ll bet you’re right,” I said, gripping one of the metal shelves. I tried to shake it but it didn’t even wobble. The only way so many cans and jars could have fallen was if someone had pushed them over, as George suggested, or tried to move the shelves. “Seems like someone went to a lot of trouble to look behind here. I wonder why.”

Mrs. Olsen came down the stairs, holding a new lightbulb. Mr. Olsen was with her. Bess handed the sticky paper towels to George and quickly retrieved a stepladder from the corner. Ms. Fix-it scrambled up nimbly and replaced the dim lightbulb with the brighter one. “Now, isn’t that better?” Bess asked.

It was.

“Look at this mess!” Mrs. Olsen declared, seeing the broken jars on the floor for the first time. “What happened?”

“We think someone tried moving these shelves away from the wall,” I told her.

“How odd!” Mr. Olsen said, bending over to pick up a small can of tomato paste. “Why would anyone do that? There’s no wall safe or anything back there.”

“What’s in there?” I asked. I pointed to a small door on the far side of the basement. It was short and very wide and looked like the sort one might use for a kid’s playhouse.

“Only a crawl space,” Mr. Olsen explained. “We don’t use it. Carol and I are too old to go crawling on our hands and knees,” he added with a crooked smile. “But we do keep boxes of Christmas decorations stored just inside the door.”

I gripped the old-fashioned doorknob and opened the door with a yank. “It’s not locked,” I said.

“Of course not,” Mrs. Olsen said, mildly surprised. “We don’t keep anything valuable in there. Why lock it?”

“Have you been rummaging around in these boxes lately?” I asked.

“No, why?” her husband replied.

“Have a look,” I said. I stepped away from the short door so the Olsens could see.

“Oh my goodness!” Mrs. Olsen declared.

“Someone’s been in here!” Her husband’s tone was more than a little annoyed. The boxes of Christmas decorations had been rummaged through and strings of tree lights, extension cords, and wreaths were strewn around inside.

“How far back does the crawl space go?” George asked, kneeling down and peering in. I squatted down next to her and focused the beam of my little flashlight down the long narrow tunnel. It appeared to go on forever.

“I don’t know, really. I’ve never explored it before,” Mr. Olsen confessed.

“For all I know, it goes under the whole length of the house.”

The hair on my arms was beginning to tickle. I had a hunch. Bess stepped up behind me and placed a hand lightly on my shoulder.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” she whispered breathlessly.

I nodded as I examined the knob on the back side of the little door. There was a lock on the inside. Why have a doorknob with a lock on the inside of an empty crawl space?

“Don’t even think about crawling in there, Nancy Drew!” George said looming over me with a frown. “You’ve already been conked on the head once today, and you promised your dad and Hannah that you would be careful.”

“I need to find out just how far back this goes,” I said, rising.

“Then I’ll go,” George offered. “Mr. Olsen, can I borrow your flashlight?”

While Mr. Olsen went upstairs to retrieve the flashlight, George and I worked out a plan. We sent Bess upstairs too to get George’s cell phone and mine from our cars.

“I want to stay in constant contact with you the entire time,” I said. “And I want you to tell me if you see anything that looks suspicious.”

“Girls, I’m not sure I approve of this,” Mrs. Olsen said nervously. “We don’t know what or who might be in there. What if something happens to you?” she said, addressing George.

“I’d feel terrible. What would I tell your mother?” “I’ll be fine, Mrs. Olsen,” George assured her. “This will be a piece of cake compared with some of the things I’ve done for Nancy before.” George grinned at me.

I grinned back and repeated my orders: “Constant voice contact.”

Once Mr. Olsen returned with the flashlight, and Bess with the cell phones, I checked the battery charge and made sure there was a signal on each phone. Then I dialed George’s number. The ring sounded like someone sneezing violently. I grinned. “Are you ready?” I asked, speaking into the phone and looking at George.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” George said into her phone.

“Be careful,” Bess admonished her cousin. George nodded. Clutching her cell phone in one hand and the flashlight in the other, she got down on her hands and knees and began crawling into the dark storage space. Bess and I knelt down in front of the open door while the Olsens peered over our shoulders. Mrs. Olsen clutched her husband’s arm nervously.

“I have a feeling this is how the prowler is getting into the house,” I told them, hoping that bit of information might cheer them up.

“But how? Where from?” Mr. Olsen asked.

“We’ll soon find out,” I replied. I knelt peering into the dark tunnel until I could no longer see George’s feet.

“That’s one deep crawl space,” Bess declared.

“We had no idea it went back under the house so far,” Mr. Olsen told us.

Although I could no longer see her, I could hear George’s breathing and an occasional grunt over the cell phone. Sometimes she’d say “Ouch!” or “Whoops!”

She seemed to be crawling in the tunnel forever, although it had really been only a few minutes.

“Tell me, what do you see?” I asked, pressing the cell phone next to my ear as I sat down on the cold cement next to the little door. Bess quickly plopped down next to me.

“Nothing,” came George’s voice over the phone. Then I heard a slight gasp and George declared, “Nancy, you’re never going to believe this!”

“What is it?” I asked, hearing the amazement in her voice. My heart skipped a beat. “What do you see, George?” I glanced up at the Olsens. They stared at me expectantly.

“I’m standing up!” George said.

“What?” I exclaimed. “You’re standing up? In the crawl space?” I heard Mrs. Olsen gasp slightly. Bess murmured an amazed “Wow!”

“Yes, but it’s not like a crawl space any longer,” George went on. “It’s an underground tunnel. Frankly, it’s pretty darn big in here. I mean, you could move boxes and stuff, even small furniture,” she added. “There are even a couple of places along the walls that have old electric light fixtures, but there aren’t any lightbulbs now.”

I repeated what George had said for the Olsens’ benefit. Mrs. Olsen shook her head with amazement while her husband declared softly, “Oh my!”

“What else do you see?” Bess asked, talking into my phone.

“Cobwebs,” came George’s terse reply, “and a dead rat.”

Bess shuddered. I wrinkled my nose. “Any sign that someone’s used the tunnel recently?” I asked.

At first there was no response. The only thing I heard was crackling static. “George?” I said. “George, can you still hear me?”

“Oh no!” Mrs. Olsen said. She leaned toward me with an anxious look.

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Olsen,” Bess tried to reassure her. “Something is probably interfering with the phone signal. I’m sure my cousin is all right.” Then Bess looked at me and raised her eyebrows inquiringly. I smiled and nodded. I wasn’t worried. Not yet, anyway.

“George, can you hear me?” I repeated. “Say something, George.” I hoped I didn’t sound too anxious.

The static crackled and, finally, I heard George’s voice cutting in and out. “All right… bricks…” Then there was nothing but silence. I repeated what she’d said to the others.

“What did she mean by ‘bricks,’ I wonder,” Mr. Olsen said.

“I’m just glad she’s okay,” his wife put in. “She’s been gone a long time.”

“That may be what’s causing the problem with the phone reception,” Bess said. “It’s hard to get reception inside brick buildings.”

Mr. and Mrs. Olsen exchanged slight frowns. “Karl, do you think the tunnel is made of brick?” Mrs. Olsen asked. Her husband shrugged.

“I want to know where that tunnel goes,” I said.

“She’s been gone more than twenty minutes,” Mr. Olsen announced after glancing at his watch. “Maybe you should tell her to turn around and come back.”

“Let’s give her another couple of minutes,” I replied. “I’m sure she’s all right and maybe —”

I didn’t get to finish what I was going to say. George’s voice came in loud and clear.

“Nancy!”

“George,” I replied, sighing heavily. I was more relieved than I wanted to admit.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” George said. “Can you hear me clearly now? I’ve reached the end of the tunnel.”

“And where is the end of the tunnel?” I asked, glancing at Bess with an excited grin.

“Well, I can’t say for sure,” came George’s reply, “but I think I may be in the storm cellar.”

Smuggler’s Hideaway

Still clutching my cell phone in one hand, I darted up the basement steps. Bess was right behind me. Together we dashed through the house, ran out into the yard, and sprinted across the sprawling lawns into the woods to the storm cellar Mr. Olsen had shown us earlier that afternoon. By the time the Olsens caught up with us, we’d already flung open the cellar doors and were peering down at George.

“See? I was right!” she declared, grinning up at us and waving her flashlight around wildly.

“Who would have guessed?” I said, grinning back at her.

“Tell George to be careful,” Mr. Olsen warned. “Those old steps are pretty rickety. I don’t even know if they’ll hold up under her weight.”

When Bess relayed this information, George said, “There’s no need to use the steps. Someone thoughtfully supplied a brand-new rope ladder.”

George nimbly climbed up and out. “I must admit, it’s good to see daylight again,” she said lightly. As she brushed the dirt off her jeans, the Olsens peered down into the cellar.

Shaking his head in amazement, Mr. Olsen said, “Well, now there’s no doubt about how that sneak is getting into our house.”

Bess removed a cobweb from the back of George’s head while I briefly summarized. “Using this storm cellar as an entrance, he goes through the tunnel to your basement, hops into the dumbwaiter, and makes his way unseen from floor to floor of the house.”

“But why, Nancy?” Mrs. Olsen asked, wringing her hands. “What is he looking for? If he wanted to rob us, he could have easily taken my computer, our camera, even my mother’s silverware by now.”

“I’m still working on that part of the puzzle, Mrs. Olsen,” I replied.

“Oh, Nancy, I’ve got a present for you,” George said, passing her flashlight to Mr. Olsen. “Hold out your hand.”

When I did, she dropped a bubble gum wrapper into my palm. “Is it the same kind you found out here in the woods?” George asked hopefully.

I grinned. “It is! This proves that the person who has been watching the house from out here is the same one using the tunnel.”

“Mr. Olsen, if you’ve got a basic padlock, we can make sure no one will ever use the storm cellar to sneak into your house again,” Bess said.

“Unless he breaks the lock,” I pointed out. When Bess only shrugged, I added, “But when he sees the lock, he’ll know we’re onto him.”