Farming Fear Read online

  “This is gonna make getting water more difficult,” Grandpa said. “That old pump in the barn is barely enough to water the animals, and I’m not lookin’ forward to meltin’ snow on the stove.”

  “We’ll work something out, I’m sure,” Grandma said. “I guess all of you best come inside and clean up.”

  “We’ll come inside in a minute, Mrs. Morton,” Frank said.

  She shrugged. “Suit yourself. I’ll get the cocoa brewing and set up the drying rack by the fireplace again.”

  “I’d best check on the pump near the animals,” Grandpa said, “and make sure it’s still working. You all watch your step out here. This whole place’ll be a skating rink in no time. I suppose I better fetch some road salt after I see to the pump.”

  The two elder Mortons went about their business, leaving the drenched youngsters alone in the driveway near the shattered tower.

  “Why didn’t you want to go in right away, Frank?” Iola asked, shivering.

  “I need to check something first,” Frank replied.

  “Yeah, me too,” Joe agreed.

  The brothers examined the fallen tower’s base.

  “This pylon didn’t just snap,” Frank said, running his fingers over the wood. “It was cut!” He pointed to the clean break in one of the four wooden support legs and some sawdust resting on the wet snow beneath it.

  “Hey, Frank,” Joe said, “what do you make of this?” He was looking at some depressions in the snow nearby. The indentations led from the rear of the tower toward the side of the barn.

  “Those look like they might be footprints,” Chet blurted.

  Frank’s brown eyes narrowed. “Yeah. Filled in by blowing snow. Let’s follow them.”

  “D-do you mind if I g-go inside?” Iola asked, her teeth chattering. “You can tell me what you find.”

  “Of course,” Joe replied. “Don’t freeze on account of us.” Iola went back inside the house while the three boys trudged around to the rear of the barn, following the tracks.

  “Well, this confirms it,” Frank said, pointing to a longer, wider depression behind the barn. The rut led away from the back of the building toward the woods on the north.

  Joe nodded. “The snowmobile gang again.”

  “They’re approaching the property from the north, being sure to keep the barn between themselves and the house—and in doing this, they’re blocking our view of them.”

  “I’ll say one thing for these bandits,” Chet said, “they’re bold.”

  “And dangerous,” Joe added. “Someone could have gotten killed, either in the fire they set or during this water tower collapse.”

  “But what are they after?” Chet asked.

  Frank shook his head. “Not sure. I’m working on it. We need to report this to the police, though.”

  “Assuming the phones are working again,” Joe said.

  After changing out of their wet clothes, the teens tried the phones again when they got inside, but they were still out. As they tried to get in touch with the police, the Hardys filled the Mortons in on what they’d found.

  “This place could really use that cell tower the mall people are promising,” Joe said. The brothers’ cell phone still wasn’t working either.

  “No use worrying when there’s no way to change it,” Grandma said. “We’ve survived on our own before, and we will again.” She had been puttering around constantly since the teens came inside, bringing the boys soup and hot liquids, fetching blankets, and laying out their clothing to dry.

  “I’ve got a shotgun stashed somewhere in the attic,” Grandpa said. “Maybe it’s time I fetched it out.”

  “I suppose that couldn’t hurt,” Frank said.

  “With Bernie kidnapped, the fire, and now this, there’s no telling what these criminals might try next,” Iola said.

  “They’ve avoided direct confrontation so far,” Joe noted.

  “Cowards as well as scoundrels,” Grandpa said. “A shotgun’s almost too good for them.”

  “It’ll have to do until we can get in touch with the police,” Grandma said. “You go fetch it, Pa, but don’t load it. We don’t need any more accidents around here.”

  Grandpa nodded his agreement and headed up to the attic.

  “Surviving through this weather is tricky enough without saboteurs,” Joe said.

  For a moment Grandma Morton’s brave face slipped. She sat down heavily in a rocking chair near the fire. A far-off, misty look came over her gray eyes. “It’s not like the old days,” she said. “That’s for sure.”

  “It’ll be all right, Grandma,” Iola said, giving her a hug.

  “Yeah,” Joe said, “there are plenty of us to help with the chores. I’m sure we’ll have everything shipshape in no time—even before the power comes back on.”

  Grandma Morton sniffed back a tear. “I sure hope you’re right,” she said.

  • • •

  Once the Hardys and their friends dried out, they doubled their efforts to help the Mortons. They tackled all their usual chores and tried to do as many of Grandma and Grandpa Morton’s tasks as they could too. They used shovels to clear the slush out of the drive before most of it could freeze, and they used the snowblower to clear away the driveway and paths where there wasn’t any ice. Then they took care of the animals, pumped and carried in enough water for the rest of the day, and replenished the supply of firewood.

  By the time evening rolled around, all four teens were exhausted. They ate ravenously and then collapsed in front of the fire, soaking in the warmth.

  There wasn’t any game playing or even much conversation around the fireplace that night. Grandma and Grandpa read by the light of the hurricane lanterns for a while before turning in.

  The teens came up with a plan to keep watch throughout the night. They took four shifts, with Joe the last one up. The younger Hardy finally crawled back into bed just before sunrise, when he heard Grandpa puttering around.

  Though nothing bad happened during their night vigil, keeping watch had left all the teens even more exhausted. They slept well into the morning the next day.

  • • •

  Joe and Frank woke to the sound of roaring engines. Both of them sat shock upright in their beds.

  “The snowmobilers!” Joe said. He and Frank both dashed to the bedroom window, which overlooked the front yard. They didn’t see the felons, but rather a big Department of Public Vehicles street plow going north past the farm on Kendall Ridge Road. The south lane of the road seemed to have been plowed already. A green pickup truck with a snowplow attached to the front sat in the Morton’s newly cleared driveway.

  The brothers recognized the truck as being the one J. J. Zuis had arrived in to help fight the fire. As they watched, a late-model sedan pulled out of the drive and skidded onto Kendall Ridge Road. It turned south, heading back toward Bayport.

  “It seems like we’ve slept through some visitors,” Frank said.

  “Not only that, but the power’s back on,” Joe said, pointing to a digital clock on the dresser. “Wasn’t that the sedan Patsy Stein drove the other day?”

  “I think you’re right,” Frank said. “I guess she doesn’t give up easily.”

  “Real estate developers seldom do,” Joe replied.

  “If the lights are on, maybe the phones are working too,” Frank suggested. “Let’s get dressed and see if the Mortons have gotten in touch with the police yet.”

  The brothers showered in shifts, then got dressed and joined the Morton family downstairs around the kitchen table. J. J. Zuis and Bill Backstrom were seated with the Mortons, enjoying breakfast. The enticing scent of freshly cooked bacon and toast filled the air.

  “Boy, it sure is good to have the power back on,” Chet said, beaming over a heaping plate of bacon and eggs.

  “I definitely feel a lot cleaner this morning,” Iola agreed. Her freshly washed brunette hair was tied up in a towel on top of her head.

  “I hate to eat and run,” J. J. sa
id, busing his plates to the sink, “but I need to get back home. I may not have as much to clean up as you do, but you know farming: Every time you take a break, something falls apart. And it’s not like I can sell the place to Stein and retire; my farm’s on the wrong side of the power lines for her mall project.”

  He smiled wistfully at the Morton grandparents. Marge and Dave Morton exchanged a sober glance.

  “Thanks again for breakfast,” J. J. said.

  “Thanks for plowing us out,” Grandma Morton replied. “That old snowblower of ours was ready to have a heart attack, I think.”

  “You’re welcome,” J. J. said, pausing to tip his hat at the door. “Take care now.”

  As the door closed behind J. J., Bill Backstrom said, “I guess I need to get to work too—make sure the barn’s in good shape, in case that storm turns back this way.”

  “The weatherman said the worst of it was headed out to sea,” Iola said.

  Backstrom shrugged. “You never know,” he said. “It’s best to be prepared.”

  “I’ll talk to you later, Bill,” Grandpa Morton said as he saw his friend out.

  “Seems like you’ve had a lot of visitors this morning,” Frank said.

  “People were just checking in,” Grandma replied. “Seeing how we weathered the storm, that’s all.”

  “We saw Patsy Stein’s car leaving as we got up,” Joe said.

  Grandpa nodded and took a deep breath. “I need to tell you kids something,” he said. “Grandma and I have decided to sell the farm.”

  13 Sold the Farm

  * * *

  Stunned silence filled the farmhouse kitchen.

  “But . . . but . . . ,” Chet stammered.

  “But why?” Iola said, finishing her brother’s thought. “All the years our family has owned this land . . . all the history . . .”

  “Sometimes it’s best to put the past behind you,” Grandma said. “Memories and places aren’t more important than people, and Grandpa and I think it’s probably time to move on.”

  “Is this because of the trouble with those snowmobile bandits?” Chet asked.

  “It’s not just that,” Grandpa said. “We’re gettin’ older. It’s harder and harder to keep up with this place every year.”

  “We could come out and help more often,” Iola offered. “There has to be something more that we can do.”

  “We know you kids have tried your best,” Grandpa continued. “You’ve helped as much as you can. But the work is tiring. Farming isn’t what it used to be, with foreign trade and market fluctuations and such. Every year it gets harder to make ends meet.”

  “There are other options, though,” Frank said. “Some farms have gone co-op, or at least part of their land has.”

  “Organic farming is booming too,” Joe said, “especially with concerns about pollution and contamination.”

  “We’re old dogs,” Grandma replied. “It’s a little late for us to be learning new tricks. The problems these past few days have convinced us of that. We’re not as young and flexible as we used to be. It’s harder for us to cope with adversity.”

  Chet was still angry. “I’d hate for you to give up the farm just because of a few criminals,” he said. “If you can hang on a little longer, I’m sure that Frank and Joe can figure out who’s behind this trouble.”

  “There’s nothing we can do,” Grandpa said. “We signed the intent papers when Patsy came by this morning. Rebuilding the damage to the barn and the water tower would be time-consuming and expensive, even with the insurance. Selling is easier all around.”

  “Did you talk to the police yet?” Frank asked. “It’s entirely possible that Stein and her group may be causing the trouble—pressuring you to sell out.”

  “If we call the police, it may mess up the deal,” Grandma said. “Stein doesn’t care about a broken water tower or a singed barn like other buyers would.”

  “She probably doesn’t care about the fields or forest, either,” Iola said, getting a bit mad herself. “When Stein is done, it’ll all just be a huge parking lot.”

  “There is a common garden in the design for the mall,” Grandma replied. “It’s guaranteed by their charter.”

  “But what if Stein’s behind all this?” Chet asked. “What if she took Bernie, set the barn on fire, shot at us in the woods, and sabotaged the water tower? You can’t just let her get away with it!”

  “Chet, we don’t know that Patsy and her group has anything to do with our troubles,” Grandpa said.

  “That’s why you should bring in the police,” Joe reiterated.

  “But if we do, and if suspicion wrongfully falls on Stein’s group, that would be the end of the deal,” Grandpa replied. “No, it’s best just to let this sleeping dog lie.”

  “But what about Bernie?” Iola asked.

  “We have to believe that the police will find him, sooner or later,” Grandma said.

  “Just how important is your land to this mall deal?” Frank asked.

  “Very important,” Grandpa Morton said. “I don’t think they could proceed without it. When Patsy called this morning, the consortium even upped their offer. But the same goes for some of the other properties in the area—every piece is vital to her plan.”

  “She still needs to get the Costellos on board,” Grandma added. “That spur of land they have that sticks down just north of our land, between the power lines and Myint’s old factory, is essential.”

  Grandpa scratched his head. “Seems like this might be the first time Costello and I ever shared a common interest. If everything goes through, all the land from here to the factory will become part of the mall complex.”

  “So they’ll be digging up that big slope we slid down the other day,” Joe said.

  “I think they’re actually counting on that slope to save them digging,” Grandpa replied. “A two-level mall would fit real good, stretching from there to the spot where the factory stands now.”

  “The mall looked very pretty and modern on the plans she showed us,” Grandma said.

  “Not as pretty as the forest, I bet,” Iola sulked.

  “I’m sorry, Iola,” Grandma said. “But Grandpa and I have to do what we think is best.”

  “No one can blame you for that,” Frank said. “Come on, guys. The snow’s let off, and it’s warmer out. Maybe we can drag the buggy out of that pond today.”

  “Good idea,” Grandpa said. “It’ll be good exercise, too. Don’t worry so much about chores today. With Bill around, I’m sure we can handle things here.”

  The Hardys and their friends suited up and headed outside. The day was chilly and damp, with the temperatures hovering right around freezing. The late morning sun peeked out from between gray clouds. Occasional flurries drifted through, the snowflakes dancing on gentle breezes.

  “I can’t believe they’ve sold the farm!” Chet said as soon as they were behind the barn, out of earshot of the house.

  “No matter what they’ve said,” Iola added, “they clearly did this because of the trouble. They’ve always loved this place. When we got here a few days ago, they were talking about handing it over to the next generation of Mortons one day.”

  “Patsy Stein sure got what she wanted out of all this,” Joe observed.

  “Costello could benefit too,” Frank said, “especially if he’s the last holdout on selling, like your grandparents said. He could ask a pretty penny for that land they want, and Stein’s consortium would have to pay.”

  “Extortion sounds like it’d be up Costello’s alley,” Iola said.

  They trudged across the fields, their boots crunching through the melting snow, until they reached the pond where Frank and Joe had crashed.

  The buggy sat with its back end tipped up in the air, its front firmly wedged in newly frozen ice. The warmth of the morning had melted most of the snow off of the vehicle, and the protective tarp remained on the engine.

  “If we can drag it out,” Frank said, “I should be able to ge
t it started.”

  The teens had come prepared for the job. They’d brought shovels, a pickax, snowbrushes, and a small portable blowtorch with them. They packed some ropes as well, to assist in pulling the vehicle out, plus a small jar of gas to prime the carburetor and hopefully get the buggy running again.

  “I wouldn’t mention this when the time comes to renew your driver’s license, Frank,” Chet joked as they sized up the condition of the vehicle.

  Frank smiled. “It’s not going on my résumé, either,” he replied.

  The four friends set to work, the hard labor taking the edge off four days of bad news and frustration.

  First they used the shovels to clear the unmelted snow away from the work area. Then they worked on the ice, using the torch to melt through a couple of tricky places.

  The sky clouded over and the snow picked up as they worked.

  “Just what we need,” Chet complained, “more snow.”

  “I don’t think it will last,” Iola said. “The weather report said the weather was supposed to get warmer and maybe turn the snow to rain.”

  “Let’s hope we get the buggy out of here before it does,” Joe said. “I’ve had enough ice-cold soakings for one week.”

  Having chipped the ice away from the chassis, they brushed the remaining snow off, then fastened ropes to the frame to pull the buggy out.

  It was back-breaking work, but none of them felt inclined to complain. Each of the four teens harbored the feeling that they deserved this for letting the Morton grandparents down. All of them felt they could have—and should have—done something more.

  By the time they hauled the buggy out of the water, they were all tired and drenched with sweat. With a heavy sigh, Joe relit the torch and began melting out the wheel joints and connections. Frank pulled the tarp off the engine and tried to start it. Nothing happened.

  “Sitting in the cold for a couple of days can’t have done it any good,” he said to the others.

  “So, do we stay here and try to fix it, cover it with the tarp again and come back for it later, or what?” Chet asked.