Trick-or-Trouble Read online

  “You haven’t had anyone claim the Geronimo then?” Frank asked.

  Magnum shook his head. “Too bad,” he said. “I could use the publicity.”

  “Mr. Magnum,” Frank said, “do you think the thief could have burned the clues after taking them? I nearly ran into a smoking trash can while I was chasing Jackson; it looked as though someone had been burning papers in it.”

  “Oh, that was me,” Magnum said. “I was getting rid of some old sales documents earlier. You weren’t hurt, were you?”

  Frank shook his head. “We should get going,” he said.

  “Good luck with the rest of the contest,” Magnum replied.

  “Don’t forget to talk to the police,” Callie added as they left.

  “I’m calling them right now.”

  The clamor of bustling crows nearby drifted to the brothers and Callie as they climbed into the van.

  “What do you think is going on?” Callie asked.

  “I’m not sure, but let’s figure it out,” Joe said. He drove the van down the street. They found some stragglers from the rest of the parade throng.

  Frank leaned out the van window and asked, “What’s going on?”

  “Some of the contest officials are up in arms,” replied a parade-goer dressed in a Star Trek uniform. “I heard they’re marching up Racine Street to confront one of the organizers—the lady who wrote the riddles.”

  “Oh, no!” Callie said. “That means they’re headed for the Book Bank!”

  14 Witch Hunt

  “Chill out,” Joe said. “We can still get there before the mob does.”

  From where they were, they had a good view down Main Street. A police escort was keeping things orderly, but the people in the large group of parade-watchers—many of them in costume—looked like a mob out of a horror flick.

  Joe skirted around the remains of the parade route, then cut down Racine Street toward the Book Bank. When they pulled up in front, they found the place dark and a “Closed” sign hanging in the window.

  Callie frowned.

  “You don’t think Chet’s gone out for food again, do you?” she asked.

  Frank walked up the short flight of steps and rapped on the door. “Ms. Soesbee? Daphne? Chet? Open up! It’s Frank, Joe, and Callie.”

  The curtain covering the window in the door cracked open, and someone fiddled with the lock from the inside. The door swung open, and the three teenagers entered.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” Kathryn Soesbee said nervously. “One of my friends uptown called, and said there was a mob headed this way. Some of the other organizers are with them. There’s been some kind of trouble with the contest, and I think they blame me.”

  “But you didn’t have anything to do with Jackson messing up the parade,” Joe said.

  Chet and Daphne emerged from the back of the store. “I heard on the radio that there’s been trouble with some of the clues,” Chet said, “like what happened at Farmer West’s the other night.”

  “That’s not Ms. Soesbee’s fault, either,” Frank said.

  “It sounds like people are getting really into this contest,” Daphne said.

  “If this blows up on us,” Ms. Soesbee said, “it could ruin the store. We’ve had enough trouble keeping our heads above water since the big chain bookstore opened at the mall.”

  “Well, you can’t solve this problem by locking the doors and turning out the lights,” Frank said.

  Kathryn Soesbee sighed. “You’re right, of course,” she said. “Turn on the lights, Daphne. I’ll open the doors.”

  A wave of angry noise indicated that the mob was coming up Racine Street. Ms. Soesbee, Frank, Joe, and Callie went out on the front steps to meet it—leaving Daphne and Chet to mind the store.

  The people in the crowd looked ugly, and not just because many of them were wearing Halloween costumes. At the front was Mr. Scott, and several other members of the Chamber of Commerce. Most of the rest seemed to be just people who joined the crowd along the parade route. They all made angry noises as they approached the bookstore. The few police who came along didn’t look really equipped to enforce security.

  “This has gotten entirely out of hand, Ms. Soesbee,” Mr. Scott said. “Teenagers are running rampant in the street because of this silly contest.” He looked a little ridiculous in his overstuffed scarecrow costume, but his voice was dead serious.

  “You didn’t think it was silly when you and the rest of the chamber agreed to it,” Kathryn Soesbee said, putting on her bravest face.

  “That was before we started to hear about trouble with the clues,” Scott said.

  “What trouble?” Ms. Soesbee replied. “Distribution of the clues has been scrupulously fair. Everyone has had plenty to give away.”

  “But some of the clue areas have been dangerous. The old warehouse, for example.”

  “Kids were working on parade floats there,” Callie said. “How dangerous could it be?”

  “What about reports of criminal activity, then?” Scott asked. “Clue stealing, someone taking a float for a joy ride, and the incident with the parade tonight?”

  “You can’t blame everyone for a couple of bad apples like Brent Jackson,” Joe said.

  The crowd grumbled angrily, clearly not pleased with the answers they were getting.

  “The police are agitated as well,” Mr. Scott added. “I’ve half a mind to call this whole thing off.”

  “But you can’t,” Callie said. “Think of all the people who are having fun.”

  “I don’t think the disturbance tonight is much fun,” Scott replied. “Some people are saying that this is all a plot to stir up publicity for the Book Bank.”

  “That’s absurd,” Ms. Soesbee shot back. “How could this kind of thing help my bookstore’s sales? I’ll be lucky if it doesn’t ruin me! We can’t cancel the contest at this late date. Every merchant downtown has too much invested in it.”

  “The woman is right!” said a deep voice from the back of the crowd.

  Everyone turned to see Vincent Blasko pushing his way to the front of the mob. He was dressed in an elegant black suit and vampire cape.

  Blasko mounted the steps. “Think of all those who have invested their time and effort in this contest. Not just the merchants, but the good people playing the game. They have devoted five days of their lives to solving these riddles—seeking these treasures. It would be a crime not to let them continue—despite the trouble.

  “Troubles, after all, can be worked out.” He smiled, showing his pointed teeth. “I myself am living proof of that. They declared me dead, but here I am.” He turned in a circle so that everyone in the crowd could see that he was very much alive. “Here we all are, working together to solve the clue mysteries, to win the prizes—and to bring a little bit of fun and pageantry to Bayport. I say, the show must go on! What do you say?”

  Blasko held his hand to his ear and the crowd bellowed, “The show must go on!”

  Jay Stone and Missy Gates, in the back of the crowd, thrust their fists into the air and yelled, “Yeah!”

  “Now,” Blasko said, “I suggest that we leave these talented people and law-enforcement officials to sort things out. They are more than capable of doing so. As to the rest of us…the game is still alive!” With a quick nod to Kathryn Soesbee, Blasko led the mob back toward the center of town. Only a few cops, Mr. Scott, another member of the Chamber of Commerce, and a reporter lingered behind.

  The reporter stepped forward. “Ms. Soesbee,” he asked, “do you think that the recent troubles have poisoned the results of the contest?”

  “Not for me,” she replied. “I’ve done my best to make the contest fair.”

  “The chamber will make sure that all results are impartial,” Mr. Scott added.

  “Why don’t you follow Vincent Blasko,” Joe suggested. “He seems to be the real story tonight.”

  The reporter looked from the small crowd in front of the bookstore to the throng moving back toward downt
own. He shrugged and followed Blasko and the rest of the crowd.

  Kathryn Soesbee let out a long sigh of relief.

  “I’m still concerned about the disbursement of the prizes, Kathryn,” Mr. Scott said after all the rest had gone. “A lot of the big awards haven’t been collected yet—and a few people have won quite a large percentage of the prizes.”

  “The contest rewards hard work and creative thinking. Some people are obviously better at it than others,” Ms. Soesbee replied. “No matter what, we will award the grand prize. The rest is up to the individual sponsors. That’s what we all agreed on.”

  Mr. Scott loosened the collar of his scarecrow suit. “But there’s very little time until midnight.”

  Ms. Soesbee shrugged. “Maybe that will make everyone more anxious to try again next year—if we do it next year. Why don’t you come in and we can discuss this. My daughter has put on a fresh pot of coffee—and I have to get back to tending the store.”

  Mr. Scott, the other chamber member, and one of the policemen decided to stay; the other cop went back to his beat.

  The Hardys and Callie stayed outside and breathed a sigh of relief.

  “I’d say Mr. Blasko earned his pay tonight,” Callie said.

  Frank and Joe nodded.

  Suddenly Frank said, “Callie, what’s that splotch of red on your jacket?”

  “What splotch?” she asked.

  “I didn’t notice it before, either,” Joe said. “But it’s really obvious in this light.”

  Frank loaned Callie his coat as she took her letterman jacket off. They all examined it—first, under the light of the streetlight nearby, and then with their flashlights.

  “It looks like paint,” Frank said. “It’s almost invisible against the crimson of the fabric under normal light, but the orange streetlight makes it look black.”

  Callie ran her fingers over the stain. “It’s dry at least,” she said. “But I can’t imagine where it came from. I washed it just a couple of days ago. The stain wasn’t there then.”

  “Hey, wait a minute,” Joe said. “See these long lines? They look like parts of a letter.”

  “Callie,” Frank said, “didn’t you bang your back against the wall in the warehouse the other day—just before the helmeted guy hijacked Dracula’s Dragster?”

  “You’re right,” she said. “The stain must have come from the clue on the wall. It was painted in dripping red letters.”

  “But Ms. Soesbee would have had to set up that clue days before,” Joe said. “The paint couldn’t have still been wet.”

  Frank nodded slowly, and his lips pulled into a grim smile. “The original paint couldn’t have been wet,” he said. “Come on. We’re going to check that clue again.”

  Hopping in the van, it only took them a few minutes to get back to the abandoned room in the old warehouse.

  “You’re right, Frank,” Joe said, as they carefully examined the lettering on the wall. “Someone has altered this message. The colors of paint are just slightly different.”

  “That’s why the lettering on the last word looks so cramped,” Frank said. “When we first saw it, I thought it was just quickly written. Callie must have bumped against the wet paint when she hit the wall.”

  “Here’s what they used to rewrite it,” Callie said, holding up a spraycan of red paint. “The guy in the helmet must have dropped this when we spotted him.”

  “Which is why he ran,” Joe said. “We knew he was up to no good—now we know what he was up to.”

  “So the real clue reads, Granted directions, with one hitch, to abandon your rail,” Callie said.

  “That makes much more sense,” Frank said.

  “It does?” Callie replied.

  “It does if you’re a suspense movie fan,” Joe said. “Replacing ‘rail’ with ‘trailing’ threw the whole thing off.”

  “Cary Grant starred in a Hitchcock movie in which he rode on a train,” Frank said.

  “And the title of the movie is a direction,” Joe added. “North by Northwest.”

  “That’s the rail connection!” Callie said. “It fits in with the Vlad and the Demon clues.”

  “And gives us the direction we need for the other two train clues we already have,” Frank said, smiling.

  “There’s an old abandoned Northwestern railroad trestle north of town,” Joe said. “That must be where we need to go.”

  “Okay, I get that,” Callie replied. “But why would anyone try to sabotage a clue?”

  “Maybe so they could claim the prize for themselves,” Frank said. “Though there’s another reason I can think of, too.”

  “We’ll find out for sure when we get there,” Joe said.

  It was just after eleven thirty when the three teens parked their van near the old train tracks. They scrambled down the overgrown slopes toward the old railroad bridge.

  As they approached the bridge, a figure emerged from the bushes nearby.

  “The devil-masked man!” Callie whispered.

  15 Horror Express

  “I think I see the clue against a girder near the center of the trestle,” Joe said, peering into the darkness.

  “Looks like Devil Mask spotted it, too,” Frank said.

  He, Joe, Callie, and the masked person sprinted toward the decaying bridge at the same time.

  The Hardys reached the bridge just a second ahead of their rival. The devil-masked man scooped up a long, straight tree branch. He ran toward the Hardys.

  Joe and Frank turned to protect themselves as the masked man bore in on them, swinging the branch.

  “This is the last prize you’ll try to steal,” Frank said. He ducked under the branch and aimed a karate chop at the man’s neck.

  The devil-masked man stepped back, but the nostrils of the mask’s long nose got stuck on Frank’s fingers. With a rubbery ripping sound, the mask tore from their opponent’s face.

  “Ren Takei!” Callie gasped.

  “With Jackson in the slammer, it was either him or Bettis,” Joe said. “Frankly, I’m a bit surprised it wasn’t Harley and his buddies.”

  “Using the devil mask for your crimes and the scar-faced mask for your more friendly meetings,” Frank said. “Pretty clever idea.”

  “It kept you guessing,” Takei said. “You’ll never prove any of this, you know.” Joe threw a punch at him, but he stepped nimbly back out of the way and counterattacked with his branch.

  Joe ducked and backed away. The three young men stood equally spaced, in a momentary face-off.

  “Give up,” Frank said. “You can’t take both Joe and me.”

  “Tell you what,” Takei said. “We’ll split this prize three ways. If I hadn’t overheard you in the warehouse just now, I might never have figured out that clue anyway—so it’s only fair.”

  “What do you mean?” Joe said. “You’re the one that altered that clue.”

  Ren Takei shook his head. “Not me. I only got that clue tonight—just before I overheard you.”

  At that moment a light flared on the other side of the tracks, and a powerful engine roared.

  “Of course!” Joe said, his blue eyes flashing with sudden insight.

  “Is that Bettis?” Callie asked.

  “Never mind, Callie,” Frank shouted. “Call the cops!”

  “I left my phone in the van!” she cried.

  “Run back and call then!”

  “We’ll cover your back,” Joe added.

  She turned and sprinted toward the parked van.

  With a sound like thunder, the big black motorcycle zoomed over the bridge toward the Hardys and Takei.

  “Are you working with this guy?” Joe asked Takei.

  A smile crept over Ren Takei’s face. “I am now,” he said, swinging the staff at Frank’s head.

  Frank dove to the side, barely avoiding being hit. Joe tried to help, but Takei twirled the stick around and stabbed it at him.

  The motorcycle roared into the group, its black-helmeted rider swinging a
chain. Frank and Joe ducked, and the chain passed over their heads. Takei, though, had to fend it off with his stick. The chain wrapped around the makeshift staff and ripped the weapon from Takei’s hand. The branch sailed through the air and clattered onto the boards of the decaying trestle, several yards away.

  “Hey! I’m on your side!” Takei cried, diving out of the cyclist’s way at the last moment.

  The black rider turned around and came back for another pass, spinning the chain over his head once more. Takei tried to scramble out of the way again, but his foot got caught between two of the bridge’s rotting boards. He ducked, but the chain grazed his temple. He fell onto the bridge, unconscious.

  “Joe, go for the prize pumpkin,” Frank called. “It must be what this guy wants!”

  “Got it!” Joe said, racing toward the orange ceramic jack-o’-lantern.

  The cyclist turned directly toward Joe and rocketed forward. He took a halfhearted swing at Frank as he passed, but the older Hardy easily ducked under the chain.

  As the rider passed by, Frank scooped up Takei’s lost staff and swung it hard into the cyclist’s lower spine. The rider jerked backward and his motorcycle shot out from under him.

  The bike smashed into the side of the bridge and stopped abruptly. The cyclist groaned and got to his knees. Frank charged at him, but the helmeted man threw his chain at the elder Hardy.

  The chain caught Frank full in the chest. The air rushed out of his lungs and he staggered back. The leather-clad cyclist rose to his feet.

  As he did, though, Joe hurtled into his knees from behind. The man collapsed like a sack of flour, right into Frank’s waiting fist.

  Frank hit him just below the ribs. The rider let out a surprised gasp and fell to the ground. His helmeted head bounced against the old railroad tracks and he lay still.

  The brothers stood above their defeated foe as blue police lights flashed over the nearby hills. The sounds of sirens filled the chilly autumn air.

  Frank reached down and pulled the helmet from the black rider’s head.

  “Rod Magnum,” he said.