A Tempest and Some Teapots 1 страница

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Carolyn Keene

Nancy Drew Girl Detective: Volume Twenty-Seven

Intruder!

Copyright, 2007, by Simon & Schuster, Inc.

 

When George’s mom asks Bess, George, and me to help her cater a benefit for the library, we’re all on board. The event is a Jane Austen-themed tea party, and George even agrees to wear a dress for the occasion!

It seems like the party isn’t everyone’s cup of tea though. The bed-and-breakfast where the event is being held has been plagued by vandalism. Someone is breaking teapots, making a mess, booby-trapping the staircase, and generally terrorizing the old couple that owns the place. No one can figure out how the mysterious intruder is getting in and out of the house — and that’s where I come in. I plan on solving this faster than I can get to the bottom of a cup of Darjeeling.

 

Trouble Brewing

 

When Mrs. Fayne called and invited me for lunch, I knew something was up. Oh sure, she’d often asked me to stay and have a sandwich if I was already at the house visiting George, but she’d never called before. Besides, I’ve had years of experience with crime — detecting crime, that is — and my detective radar started humming as soon as I heard George’s mother’s voice. There was something in her tone. She sounded overly cheerful, but cautious and a little worried, too.

“Is George okay?” I asked anxiously. I put down the file folder I held in my hand. George is one of my best friends. Her cousin Bess is the other. I couldn’t stand it if anything bad happened to either one of them.

“George is fine,” Mrs. Fayne assured me. “We’ll talk when you get here, Nancy. Noon, okay? I don’t feel comfortable discussing the matter over the phone.”

I blinked with surprise. I’d been scanning my dad’s old correspondence files into the computer. Dad’s going digital. Saving paper and saving trees. It’s a good thing. Besides, I’m happy to help out when I can. I’m proud of my dad too. He’s the best lawyer in River Heights, and I’m not just saying that because I’m his daughter. But all thoughts of helping him slipped from my mind.

“Sure, Mrs. Fayne. I’ll come for lunch,” I said. “I’ll be there at noon.”

“Thanks, Nancy,” she said, sounding relieved.

How weird, I thought, hanging up the phone. I wonder what’s going on.

That’s when I glanced down at my jeans and turquoise T-shirt. Should I change into something else? Bess is always pointing out that I dress like a slob — only she says it in a really nice way so she doesn’t hurt my feelings. I guess I just don’t pay much attention to clothes, especially when I’ve got a mystery on my mind.

I couldn’t help wondering if the problem had something to do with the upcoming Jane Austen Tea Party. It seemed that every female in my hometown of River Heights was eagerly looking forward to the fund-raiser, and that included me, Bess, and George. Mrs. Fayne owns a catering business, and she’d been hired to cater the event, which was going to raise money for the local library to spend on some additional computers.

Mrs. Cornelius Mahoney was sponsoring the event. She’d donated the money to build the library in the first place, years ago. She’s pretty rich and very nice — which is more than folks say about her dead husband. He was a mean man and probably a crook and a securities manipulator. But that’s another story.

Evaline Waters, the retired librarian and a good friend of mine, was on the planning committee. When she asked me to help serve tea and scones for the event, I said, “Why not!” After all, she was the one who introduced me to Jane Austen’s novels when I was about fifteen. My favorite is Pride and Prejudice, but I like Emma, too, and Sense and Sensibility.

I’ve seen all the movies with Bess, who’s a real Jane Austen fan. She even made me watch an old black-and-white version of Pride and Prejudice starring Greer Garson and Sir Laurence Olivier. I liked it, even though the actresses wore all the wrong kind of dresses, as Bess was quick to point out — wrong for the time period. I believed her, of course. There isn’t anything Bess doesn’t know about clothes.

Ms. Waters convinced Bess and George to volunteer to help out too. But ever since George learned that we’d be wearing old-fashioned long dresses with high waists and puffy sleeves, she’d been trying to back out. She and her mom even had an argument about it last week. Could that be what Mrs. Fayne wanted to talk to me about?

I slipped on a clean white oxford shirt and a blue corduroy skirt. Then I ran a brush through my hair. Finally I scribbled a note for our housekeeper, Hannah Gruen. She was still out running errands, and I didn’t want her to worry about me.

Snatching up my keys and purse from the kitchen counter, I made my way out to my car and drove to the Faynes’ house. I was surprised to see Mrs. Mahoney’s elegant new Cadillac parked out front. Had Mrs. Fayne invited the wealthy widow to lunch too, or had Mrs. Mahoney just dropped in to discuss plans for Saturday’s tea?

George opened the front door before I even made it halfway up the sidewalk. She was wearing baggy cargo pants and a bright red camp shirt. She slouched in the doorway, her hands shoved down into the deep pockets of her pants. She was not smiling. This is not good, I thought.

“Hey, George, what’s up?” I called out, hurrying toward her.

“Thanks for coming, Nancy,” George said, “especially on such short notice. My mom’s pretty upset,” she added.

“Can you tell me what’s going on? Is Mrs. Mahoney here? Did your mom invite her to lunch too?” I asked, shooting one question after another at her. I can’t help it. I always ask lots of questions.

When George only nodded, I blurted out, “Then I was right! It does have something to do with this weekend’s tea party.” I followed George into the house. “So tell me what’s happened,” I demanded.

“Some sneak shattered some expensive teapots, and that’s just the latest incident,” George told me with a slight frown. “My mom thinks someone is trying to sabotage the fund-raiser.”

“Who would do that?” I wanted to know.

“That’s what Mom wants you to find out,” George said, leading me into the house. “The tea is supposed to be held this Saturday, so you’re going to have to work fast on this one, Nancy.”

I nodded and followed George inside the house. As I’d guessed when I saw her car out front, Mrs. Mahoney was there — looking elegant, as usual, but very anxious. Ms. Waters was there too. She smiled when she saw me and gave a little sigh of relief. I could tell immediately that she was counting on me to solve the mystery of the shattered teapots. I hoped I wouldn’t let her down.

“Nancy, thanks for coming,” George’s mom said. She hurried forward to give me a hug. Mrs. Fayne’s worry showed on her face.

“Sure, Mrs. Fayne,” I said, trying to reassure her. “Anything I can do to help, I will.”

She nodded and then, turning to the other women, said, “I’m serving lunch in the kitchen. Help yourselves, and then we can discuss the… er… the problems we’re having with Saturday’s fund-raiser and fill Nancy in on what’s happened.”

“I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: I’m firmly against canceling the tea,” Mrs. Mahoney declared. She followed George’s mother into the kitchen. George and I followed behind Ms. Waters.

“But perhaps we should postpone it, at least,” the librarian proposed.

I glanced at George and raised my eyebrows. I’ll admit, I was more than a little intrigued. After all, the advertisements were out. What could be so bad that they’d cancel the whole event?

Mrs. Fayne served a delicious lunch — a savory cheese quiche and a fresh spinach salad studded with candied pecans and sliced strawberries. There was also a platter heaped with lots of dainty little sandwiches cut into different shapes, like flowers and hearts and triangles. No one seemed to have much of an appetite, except George, and she’s always up for a meal. I was eager to start asking questions, but I waited until Mrs. Fayne had eaten something first.

“These are good, Mom,” George said, indicating the tiny smoked salmon sandwiches.

“Indeed they are,” Ms. Waters said. “I hope you’ll be serving them on Saturday.” Then, with an uncertain clearing of her throat, she added, “ If there’s still going to be a tea on Saturday.”

There was an immediate protest from both Mrs. Fayne and Mrs. Mahoney, and I used this as my opening to jump in and start asking questions.

“So, tell me what’s going on,” I urged. “George mentioned something about sabotage. Are you really considering canceling the Jane Austen Tea Party?”

“We may have to,” Ms. Waters said quietly.

“We can’t,” Mrs. Fayne protested. “Not after all our hard work and publicity efforts,” she added, refilling our glasses with iced tea.

“I agree,” Mrs. Mahoney spoke up. “Ticket sales have been better than we’d expected, and I have no doubt we’ll sell many last-minute ones at the door. The tea must go on as scheduled.”

“Not if there’s the possibility that someone may get hurt,” Ms. Waters insisted.

“Mrs. Fayne, please start at the beginning,” I urged.

George’s mom looked at me with a worried frown. “Nancy, as you know, the fund-raiser is supposed to be held at Cardinal Corners, the new bed-and-breakfast owned by Mr. and Mrs. Olsen.”

I nodded. I’d driven past the big old house with its sprawling lawns more than a week ago. The locals referred to it as “the old Rappapport place.” It dated all the way back to Civil War days and was located not far from the river. It had been pretty run-down until Mr. and Mrs. Olsen arrived from Iowa and started fixing it up. The bed-and-breakfast was supposed to open for business right after the fund-raiser was over.

“Mrs. Olsen says she’s heard strange noises in the night,” George’s mom went on. “Furniture has been rearranged and even tipped over. Once, the beds were stripped of all the sheets and blankets and left in a heap in the middle of the upstairs hall.”

“And now, the unexplained teapot incident,” Ms. Waters said with a sigh.

“What teapot incident?” I asked. I needed to know all the specifics if I was going to successfully get to the bottom of the mystery.

“Most of the teapots we’ve borrowed for Saturday’s event,” Mrs. Mahoney said, “were from Evaline’s collection.” She shot a sympathetic glance at Ms. Waters. “They were broken to bits, and two of the valuable silver ones have been seriously damaged.”

“Did this take place at the Olsens’?” I asked. When all the women nodded, I went on. “Were there any signs of breaking and entering? Did they call the police?”

“Not at first,” Mrs. Fayne said. “Nothing was stolen or damaged until the teapots. But Carol Olsen did call Chief McGinnis first thing this morning. He said it was probably vandals, but without witnesses the chances of catching them are slim.”

I nodded. I could imagine how Mrs. Olsen’s worried phone call was received at headquarters. Chief McGinnis is not one of my favorite people. But I have to admit, he’s a good law enforcement officer and has helped me with several cases in the past. Of course, Bess and George are usually quick to point out that I’ve helped him more than he’s ever helped me.

“So, any ideas who could have done it?” I asked. “Were there any fingerprints?”

The women shook their heads.

“What about footprints outside the house, around the windows and doors?” I went on.

Again, the women shook their heads and shrugged.

“I’m afraid someone is deliberately trying to prevent the tea party from taking place,” Mrs. Fayne said.

“And something worse could happen between now and Saturday. Someone could be hurt. What if there’s a serious accident?” Ms. Waters asked. She looked so nervous that I wondered briefly if she knew something she wasn’t telling the rest of us.

Mrs. Mahoney gave an indignant snort. “Why would anyone want to sabotage the event?” she demanded. “After all, it’s a community benefit. The public library will get new computers that everyone can use.”

“Mom, tell Nancy what Mrs. Olsen told you,” George said. Mrs. Fayne looked sort of uncomfortable and became suddenly busy folding the corner of her napkin over and over again. I looked at George expectantly.

“I need to know everything,” I prompted. “There’s not much time. It’s already Tuesday and the Jane Austen Tea Party is planned for Saturday afternoon.”

Mrs. Fayne hesitated. She glanced uncomfortably at Mrs. Mahoney. Mrs. Mahoney in turn looked over at Evaline Waters. Finally George blurted, “Mrs. Olsen thinks her house is haunted by a mean ghost!”

 

A Tempest and Some Teapots

 

“A ghost?” I declared. “She thinks the house is haunted?”

George nodded and gave an embarrassed little shrug. Mrs. Mahoney snorted with disapproval.

“But there’s never been any ghost stories associated with the old Rappapport place,” Ms. Waters added thoughtfully. “At least none that I can remember.”

“It’s all nonsense,” Mrs. Fayne put in. “We can’t cancel a much-anticipated fund-raiser because of a silly ghost story. Besides, I don’t think Carol really believes there’s a ghost. It’s the cleaning woman who’s convinced the house is haunted.”

“Emily Spradling is frightened of her own shadow,” Mrs. Mahoney put in.

“Who is Emily Spradling?” I asked, grinning. She sounded like a real goose. I wondered if the Olsens had mentioned this little angle to Chief McGinnis. I could just imagine his reaction to their suggestion of a ghostly vandal rather than a human one.

“Emily is the one who has seen the ghost that is supposedly shattering teapots and messing up the bed linens. She works for the Olsens,” Mrs. Mahoney explained. “Won’t you go out to the bed-and-breakfast and investigate, Nancy? We’d all feel so much better if you’d look into the matter for us.”

“Yes, Nancy, please,” Mrs. Fayne urged. “We must go on with the fund-raiser.”

“But we don’t want any more mishaps between now and then,” Ms. Waters said, leaning toward me. “You’ll solve the mystery, won’t you?”

“I’ll certainly try,” I said. “If you’ll let George come along, I’d like to go out there now, Mrs. Fayne. Will you call the Olsens and let them know we’re coming?”

The three women seemed quite relieved by my take-charge attitude. Reassured, Mrs. Mahoney and Ms. Waters finished their lunch, then thanked our hostess and left together a short while later. George and I cleared the table while Mrs. Fayne called the Olsens. I was wondering who was reading the paperback copy of Jane Austen’s novel Emma that I noticed on the kitchen counter when George spoke up.

“So, what do you think, Nancy?” she probed. “Any chance there’s a real ghost at Cardinal Corners?”

When I saw the smile that was tugging at the corner of my friend’s mouth, I chuckled. “I’m not scared. Are you?”

George grinned. “Not in broad daylight, anyway,” she said.

But by the time we’d finished helping Mrs. Fayne in the kitchen, the sky had grown dark with rain clouds. As George and I drove out to Cardinal Corners, the weather became even more threatening. We’d only been on the road for fifteen minutes when the heavy clouds opened up and drops poured down. I turned on my windshield wipers, but I could still barely see through the streaming rain.

“I think I’d better slow down,” I said. The wipers were flapping like crazy. “I can’t see a thing. George, you’ll have to help me look for the turnoff.”

George peered through the windows. Just then a clap of thunder boomed overhead and a jagged flash of lightning illuminated the highway. We both jumped.

“Just what we need — a thunderstorm on our way to a haunted house.” George laughed uneasily.

I only nodded, too preoccupied with driving cautiously to carry the joke any further. “There it is!” George declared. “I just saw the sign with the red bird on it — that must be Cardinal Corners up ahead.”

We soon saw the old three-story house rise up through the gloom. The lights were on, giving a welcoming glow in the dark, stormy afternoon.

“That must be Mrs. Olsen,” I said, pulling my car into the driveway as near to the veranda steps as possible. A short, red-haired woman with a blue sweater slung around her shoulders stood near the front door.

“We’ll have to make a dash for it,” George said. “And watch out for puddles.”

“Okay, here goes,” I replied, tucking my car keys into my purse. George and I ran like crazy up the steps of the B and B. We were wet, breathless, and laughing when the red-haired woman opened the front door for us.

“Come in, girls, before you drown,” she urged. “Thank goodness you’ve arrived safely. You must be Nancy Drew?” she said, looking up at me anxiously.

“Yes, ma’am,” I replied, shaking the rain from my skirt and swiping a hand through my damp hair. Up close, the woman looked much older. Her face was lined with wrinkles, and her curly red hair was heavily streaked with gray. But her brown eyes were vibrant and so was her smile.

“You must be Mrs. Olsen,” I said as we shook hands. Mine was slightly damp. “This is my friend George Fayne.”

“I’ve met your mother, George,” Mrs. Olsen said, shaking my friend’s hand, too. “Come in and dry off. I’ve got hot water on. We’ll have some tea — or coffee, if you’d prefer it.”

I opted for hot tea. George wanted coffee. We dried off a little in the bathroom down the hall and then made our way back to the foyer, where we rejoined Mrs. Olsen. She then led us to an old-fashioned parlor with a warm fire crackling in the fireplace. A tall, skinny man had assembled cups and saucers and platters of cookies.

“This is my husband, Karl,” Mrs. Olsen said. George and I shook hands with Mr. Olsen. He was so thin that his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down his throat when he spoke.

“You’ve restored this old house beautifully,” I told the couple. They seemed pleased by the compliment, and Mr. Olsen indicated some of the work they’d done to the tall, arched windows and high ceilings. Glancing around, I smiled slightly when I noticed the copy of Northanger Abbey by Jane Austen on the end table near Mrs. Olsen’s chair. That was one of Jane Austen’s novels I hadn’t read yet, but I hoped to get around to it one of these days.

As we sipped our hot drinks, Mrs. Olsen explained that she and her husband were both retired schoolteachers, and that they’d always dreamed of owning a bed-and-breakfast one day. They’d discovered the old Rappapport place while on a road trip more than a year ago and had fallen in love with it.

“Our first official day of business will be Saturday, when we host the Jane Austen Tea Party,” Mr. Olsen told us as he passed the cookies. “We already have customers booked for that weekend, and now, with the recent vandalism, we’re a little nervous to accept any more reservations.”

“Our life savings are tied up in this enterprise. We can’t quit, no matter what terrible things happen. We have no place else to go,” Mrs. Olsen said, wringing her hands. “No one ever mentioned the possibility that the house might be… well, you know… haunted,” she added nervously.

“I told Carol that a good old-fashioned ghost might be good for business,” Mr. Olsen said with a throaty chuckle.

“I’m not interested in that sort of business,” Mrs. Olsen replied curtly. “Can you help us, Nancy? Mrs. Fayne and the other women on the planning committee told us that you could.”

“Nancy does have a real knack for solving mysteries,” George spoke up.

Compliments always embarrass me a little. “I’ll certainly give it my best shot,” I assured them. “First tell me all that’s happened. Have either of you actually seen the ghost?”

“Emily claims she’s heard the ghost on more than one occasion,” Mrs. Olsen said with a sniff. “Emily works for us. Helps out in the kitchen and does the laundry, makes the beds. Frankly I don’t think it’s a ghost. I think someone is trying to run us out of business before we even get started.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Maybe they don’t want the competition,” Mr. Olsen ventured. “There are other B and Bs in town.”

“You told Chief McGinnis about the vandalism, right?” I pressed.

“We told him about the broken teapots,” Mr. Olsen admitted. “But the other incidents have been… well… strange. ”

“You mean the tipped-over furniture and rumpled bed linens?” I asked.

The Olsens nodded.

“Once, we were jolted out of a sound sleep by a lot of banging coming from the kitchen,” Mrs. Olsen said. “When we came downstairs, we didn’t find anybody. But all the kitchen cabinets were flung open. Pots and pans and casserole dishes were scattered all over the floor.”

“Furniture has been moved once or twice, and all the mirrors hung crooked,” her husband added.

“But nothing broken or destroyed?” George asked.

“Not until the teapots yesterday,” Mr. Olsen said.

“I feel just awful about that too,” Mrs. Olsen added. “Most of the broken ones belonged to Evaline Waters.”

“Did you tell anybody else, other than the women on the fundraiser committee, about what’s happened?” I asked.

Mr. Olsen chuckled dryly. “A fine pair of goonies we’d seem to be if we called the police about these sorts of incidents. And since we’re new to the community, we don’t know who to trust. We’re a little afraid, really, to talk about what’s been happening, and we don’t want any negative publicity.”

“Strange things just keep happening,” Mrs. Olsen admitted. “I’ll confess I’m very worried.”

So was I, but I didn’t say anything. I glanced at one of the tall arched windows and watched the rain pouring outside. There was a boom of thunder in the distance, and I made up my mind to get to work immediately. The random acts of vandalism or ghostly mischief were becoming increasingly destructive. Still, I didn’t think Chief McGinnis would give the crime a high priority. It would be up to me to solve the case.

“The police dusted for prints,” Mr. Olsen said then. I looked up from my teacup. “They had a look around but didn’t find anything,” he added with a shrug.

“And we only called because of the broken teapots,” Mrs. Olsen added. “We didn’t tell them about… about the other things that happened.”

“We didn’t want them to think we were kooks or anything,” her husband said.

“Nancy, do you think a ghost is haunting Cardinal Corners?” Mrs. Olsen looked at me uncertainly.

“No,” I replied. “I think someone wants to scare you. Who and why I don’t know, but I intend to find out.”

“What about the teapots?” George asked me. “You don’t think they were destroyed to prevent the tea party from taking place?”

“No, I think they were broken because they were easy and convenient items to break,” I said.

“So, it was not meant to sabotage the fund-raiser?” Mr. Olsen asked.

“I’m not sure,” I told him. “It’s just a hunch, but I don’t think these incidents have anything to do with the fund-raiser. The pranks are rather childish. If someone wanted to sabotage Saturday’s tea, why not break into the Faynes’ home and destroy the centerpieces and baked goods Mrs. Fayne has stored there?”

There was a brief silence after I posed this question. No one said a word. The only sound was the steady downpour of rain outside and the occasional rumble of thunder. I really wanted to have a look around the old place and see if anybody was getting inside through a back door or window somewhere. But the weather wasn’t cooperating.

“Does anyone live here with you?” I asked, deciding to pursue another angle. “Any employees?”

“We have only two people working for us so far,” Mrs. Olsen said, again passing me the plate of cookies. “I’ve already told you about Emily.”

“She’s a timid little thing,” Mr. Olsen said. “Emily’s quite convinced that a ghost is responsible for all that’s been happening. She told us that she’s heard it more than once and insists that she saw it too in the hallway upstairs. She seems sincerely frightened.”

“Juan Tabo comes several times a week to do the yard work,” Mrs. Olsen went on. “He’s a rather surly young man, but he keeps the grounds looking quite lovely, and his garden shed is neat and tidy. He’s very reliable, too, and always shows up on time, rain or shine.”

“I’d like to speak with both of them,” I told the Olsens. “And I’d like to have a look around the place. Obviously I’m not going to be able to search the grounds for clues this afternoon. I’ll start inside the house.” I rose to my feet. There was no time to waste.

“Do you keep any valuables here?”

“No, just the usual sort of things — the televisions, a camera, the computer,” Mr. Olsen said, hauling his lanky frame from his chair.

“My mother’s silverware,” Mrs. Olsen put in. “When you look around, what are you expecting to find?”

“I’m not expecting to find anything in particular,” I said, placing my empty cup and saucer on a small side table.

“Nancy wants to look for clues,” George explained.

“There’s also the possibility that one of your employees is responsible for these pranks,” I said, looking at the couple. They both frowned when I mentioned this.

“I really don’t think —” Mrs. Olsen’s statement ended abruptly and with a gasp as the lights blinked out, plunging the entire house in sudden darkness. Before anyone could say a word, the silence was pierced by a woman’s terrified scream!

 

Deadly Danger

 

“Who was that?” I demanded, stooping down for my purse. I quickly retrieved my car keys, which had a tiny flashlight attached to the key ring. This little tool had come in pretty handy on several occasions. I flicked it on and stood up. “Where did that scream come from?” I asked.

“I think it was Emily,” Mrs. Olsen stammered. “She’s in the kitchen.”

“Lead the way to the kitchen, Mr. Olsen,” I urged, “and hurry!”

The scream had been awful. I feared the worst. I glanced at George, and even in the gloom I could see the tension on her face. She was worried too.

My heart was pounding as I hurried along behind Mr. Olsen. George and Mrs. Olsen followed me. When we all reached the kitchen, Emily Spradling was alive and well, standing on her own two feet. The gleam of my flashlight revealed her to be a middle-aged woman in a dark dress and an apron. Her brown hair was pulled back in a limp ponytail. She clutched her chest with one hand and clung to the kitchen counter with the other.

“Emily, are you all right?” Mrs. Olsen asked, rushing forward to steady her frightened employee.

“The ghost. It was… there!” She pointed to what looked like a small broom closet. While Mr. Olsen rummaged through the kitchen cabinets retrieving chunky pillar candles and matches, I yanked open the door to the little closet.

“It’s a dumbwaiter!” I declared. I stepped aside so George could have a look at the small elevator that was used in the old days to send food to the rooms upstairs. I’d seen these contraptions in old houses before, and I poked my head in, wondering if it would bear my weight.

George hissed in my ear, “Don’t even think about getting in there, Nancy Drew.”

I shrugged. “You saw the ghost in here?” I asked, turning to Emily.

The woman, wide-eyed with fear, nodded. “I saw the dumbwaiter move — right before the lights went out.”

“But you didn’t actually see the ghost,” I pressed.

“I heard it — in there,” Emily insisted, pointing to the dumbwaiter.

I frowned and turned back to examine the dumbwaiter.

George whispered, “If anything happens to you, you could end up in the hospital — or worse. Then who would solve this case before Saturday?” she asked.

I reluctantly gave up the idea of cramming myself into the dumbwaiter and going from floor to floor looking for the intruder. George was right. I had to be careful. A lot of people were depending on me.

“It is large enough for a person to get into,” I said. “A young teenager or even a small man or woman could get from floor to floor in here.”

“It was a ghost,” Emily insisted with a shudder. Then she started to cry. As Mrs. Olsen talked to her in soothing tones and helped her to a chair at the kitchen table, I glanced at George, who wrinkled her nose slightly. She was thinking the same thing I was: Emily was not a good witness.

“Mr. Olsen, is the electricity off in the entire neighborhood or just here in your house?” I asked, steering the conversation in a different direction.

Mr. Olsen, who’d finished lighting candles, replied, “There’s one quick way to find out.” Picking up the large flashlight he’d found in a kitchen drawer, he made his way to the dining room and peered out the window. I stood in the doorway watching him and turned off my own miniflashlight.