A Tempest and Some Teapots 3 страница

“The gowns are beautiful!” I declared. “George, you look like a different person all dressed up like that.” George, who towered over me on the stool, simply scowled.

Then, turning to Bess, I added, “And you’re supermodel gorgeous, as always, Bess. That’s such a lovely shade of blue.” I started to say something about how authentic the costumes appeared to be when I heard someone stepping up behind me in the doorway. I turned and was slightly surprised to see Deirdre Shannon.

“Nancy, you’re late,” she mimicked.

George’s scowl deepened, and she muttered something under her breath. She was in a sour mood because of Deirdre, I guessed. George doesn’t like her one bit. None of us really like her. And to be honest, Deirdre doesn’t like us, either. Come to think of it, she doesn’t like very many people at all. Still, I try to be nice whenever we meet. We’ve known her since elementary school — back then everyone called her DeeDee.

Stepping aside so she could enter the room, I said, “That soft green color is a very becoming shade on you, DeeDee. It really brings out the color of your eyes.”

Deirdre snorted at my compliment and shrugged past me. “It’s Deirdre, not DeeDee,” she corrected in a haughty tone. “And it’s a frock, not a dress. Julia says that’s what they were called in Jane Austen’s time.”

Deirdre immediately made her way to the long mirror on the far side of Julia’s sewing room. She practically pushed Bess out of the way so she could admire her own reflection. Even though Deirdre isn’t a very nice person, she is quite pretty with her long, curly dark hair, green eyes, and very fair skin.

“Dress, frock, whatever! This is so humiliating,” George moaned. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this, Bess.”

“Oh, stop whining,” Bess ordered, inspecting the puffed sleeves of her own frock. “You look like you stepped right out of the pages of one of Jane Austen’s novels.”

“You’ll like the jacket, Georgia,” Julia said.

Deirdre snorted at the seamstress’s use of George’s full name, but I noticed that her green eyes widened with envy when Julia retrieved a smart red jacket from the back of a nearby chair.

“Step down and try this on,” Julia said to George. “This is called a spencer. Your cousin said you preferred a more tailored style in clothes, so I thought I’d include this as part of your costume.”

George stepped down from the stool and slipped on the jacket. It was ruby red and short waisted with long sleeves. “I do like this,” George admitted.

“So do I,” Deirdre spoke up. “I want one just like it.”

“You can hardly wear a red spencer with your green frock,” Bess said, rolling her eyes and emphasizing the word frock. “You’d look like a Christmas tree. Nancy, this one’s yours.” Bess held up a creamy apricot-colored frock. “Go slip it on so Julia can pin up the hem.”

“You’re next, Deirdre,” the seamstress said. “Up on the stool, please.”

While Julia turned her attention to Deirdre, I took my dress — I mean, frock — and slipped into the bedroom to try it on. After a minute or so, Bess poked her head around the door.

“Need someone to zip you up in the back?” she asked.

I nodded. “This is beautiful and surprisingly comfortable,” I said, smoothing out the skirt of the gown with one hand.

“Nancy, stand up straight,” Bess ordered, fussing with my zipper. “I knew this color would be perfect for you. It brings out the reddish gold highlights in your hair,” she added.

When we stepped out of the bedroom and joined the others, Bess added, “This style was all the rage in Jane Austen’s day. But of course, back in 1806, there would have been dozens of little buttons up the back instead of a zipper.”

“Have you altered a gown for yourself?” I asked Julia.

“Yes,” Julia replied after removing a pin from her mouth. “And one for Mrs. Mahoney, Ms. Waters, and even Mrs. Olsen. I took that one out to her on Sunday and made her try it on, just to be sure everything fit comfortably.” Then, raising her eyebrows a bit, she added chattily, “There was quite an argument going on in the kitchen when I was there.”

“Between Mr. and Mrs. Olsen?” I asked, intrigued.

“No, Karl was arguing with the gardener, who had insisted on a raise. Karl told him no. Apparently the gardener has quite a temper,” she added with a knowing wink.

“Hmm, that’s interesting,” I said. I recalled the expensive watch Juan had been wearing the day before.

“Carol Olsen was embarrassed, of course,” Julia chattered on as she returned attention to Deirdre’s hem.

“Did you hear what they said exactly?” George asked.

“No, but Nancy could find out easily enough,” the seamstress replied, looking over at me with a smile. “You’re so clever.”

Deirdre snorted then and rolled her eyes. With a touch of impatience, she said bluntly, “I want a jacket like the one you’ve picked out for George.” She stood on the stool holding her arms out to the side and looking down at Julia Jute with something between a glare and a smirk.

Seeing the seamstress blush with discomfort, I hastened to change the subject. “I sure hope we don’t have to wear high-heeled boots with lots of buttons on the side. We’ll be on our feet most of the afternoon. I want to be comfortable.”

“I don’t want to twist an ankle or slosh cups of hot tea all over,” George added.

I chuckled. I’d been worrying a little about the same thing. “I can be kind of a klutz too,” I admitted.

“So we’ve noticed,” Deirdre commented dryly.

Both Bess and George gave Deirdre a dirty look. I chose to ignore her.

“I suggest you wear ballerina flats, if you have them,” Julia said, looking up from Deirdre’s hem. “Or even a pretty pair of slippers.”

“We can all be thankful none of us have to wear pattens,” Bess put in.

“What are pattens?” I asked, studying my reflection in front of the long mirror.

“That’s what they wore on rainy days in Jane Austen’s time to keep their shoes dry and the hems of their long dresses from dragging in the mud,” Bess said. “They were overshoes with thick wooden soles supported by large metal rings on the bottom. They raised you off the ground a few inches, out of the puddles. Just imagine all those women going cling-clang down the muddy streets of London and Bath,” she added.

Leave it to Bess to know about fashion trends — even the ones that were in hundreds of years ago!

“You may step down now, Deirdre,” Julia said. “Your frock fits perfectly.”

“What about a jacket like the one George is wearing?” Deirdre asked again.

There was a brief, uncomfortable silence before Julia said, “There’s only one like it in the collection the theater group gave me. But perhaps you’d like to wear this.” She retrieved a garment from the closet. It was made from some gauzy white material and looked like a long sleeveless vest.

“Is that a pelisse?” Bess asked.

“It is,” Julia admitted. “It was a very popular clothing accessory in Jane Austen’s day.”

“I don’t like it,” Deirdre said with a pout.

“But I do!” Bess exclaimed. She shot Deirdre a scathing scowl and then turned to admire the pelisse. Her cheeks were bright red. I could tell that Bess was angry. She’s a very tenderhearted person, and I knew she was afraid that Deirdre had hurt Julia’s feelings.

“May I try it on?” Bess asked politely.

“Certainly,” Julia said. She helped Bess slip the pelisse over her blue frock. She looked quite stunning. With her blond hair and sparkling blue eyes, Bess is a head turner, that’s for sure — even in old-fashioned clothes.

While we oohed and aahed over the addition to Bess’s costume, Deirdre flounced out of the room. She doesn’t like anyone being the center of attention — unless, of course, it’s her.

“Your turn, Nancy,” Julia said, turning to me with a smile. Her face was slightly flushed. I felt embarrassed by Deirdre’s rudeness, but I could tell that Julia was pleased that Bess liked the pelisse.

I was standing on the stool having my hem measured when Deirdre came back in wearing a pair of flared jeans and a pink and orange peasant blouse.

“When can I come back to pick up my frock?” she asked Julia.

“Any time Thursday afternoon or Friday,” Julia replied. “I’ll have your gown hemmed, washed, and pressed by then.”

“Thanks,” Deirdre said — rather curtly, I thought. She turned to go and then suddenly stopped.

Placing her hands on her hips, she said to no one in particular, “Is it true that women in Jane Austen’s time used to wet down their dresses and the slips underneath so the fabric would be more clingy?”

I glanced down at Julia, who looked up at me with wide, astonished eyes. I raised my eyebrows questioningly and she shrugged.

“Some women did that,” Bess spoke up, stepping away from the mirror where she’d been admiring her pelisse. “But it was considered quite scandalous. I mean, look how thin this material is!” She indicated the length of blue material that draped in front of her. “If it gets wet, you can practically see thought it.”

Deirdre laughed. “I might just have to try it. A damp, clingy frock would certainly show off my figure,” she added with a giggle.

“You wouldn’t dare!” George taunted.

“Of course I would,” Deirdre said. “I want to look particularly alluring on Saturday. I have a date for the tea.” She looked up at me and smiled in a smug sort of way.

“I thought you were serving, like the rest of us,” Bess said.

“I am,” Deirdre replied, her green eyes never leaving mine. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t have a date, too.”

“So who’s the lucky guy?” George asked, in a sarcastic tone.

Deirdre gave me a coy smile. Then, turning to the door, she said over her shoulder, “Ned Nickerson.”

 

Bullet Pudding, Anyone?

 

We’d left Julia Jute’s house and were munching chips and salsa at my favorite Mexican restaurant, waiting for our order of cheese enchiladas, before Bess and George said anything about Deirdre.

“Nancy, I hope you don’t believe what Deirdre said about going to the tea with Ned,” Bess said, shaking her head. “I sure don’t.” She stabbed a tortilla chip into the salsa bowl.

“Deidre is lying, plain and simple,” George agreed emphatically.

I smiled as I took a sip of my soda. Ned is my boyfriend, and he has been since we were in junior high. He’s tall and good-looking, so girls are always saying he’s cute and trying to get his attention. I’m used to it, but Bess and George have always been annoyed by Deirdre’s flirty behavior around Ned. Frankly it bothers them more than it bothers me. I trust Ned. Besides, he doesn’t like Deirdre. He’s told me so. He thinks she’s spoiled and selfish. And she is. Ned, on the other hand, has the sweetest dimples when he grins, and he’s so much fun to be with. He’s considerate, too. I can almost forgive Deirdre for trying to get her claws into him. Almost.

“Has Ned mentioned anything about going on Saturday?” George asked. She leaned forward slightly.

“No, he hasn’t said a word about it,” I replied. “But you and Bess don’t have to try to cheer me up or anything. I’m not worried.”

The waitress appeared with our platters of steaming enchiladas. We began rearranging our glasses and the basket of chips to make more room on the table. Then my cell phone rang. It was Ned.

“Hey, we were just talking about you,” I said lightly.

“I hope it was all good stuff,” he answered.

I told him what Deirdre had said about going to the tea with him on Saturday. He sputtered angrily before explaining that he was simply giving Deirdre, Mrs. Shannon, and his mother a ride to the event.

“And I have a little surprise for you on Saturday too,” Ned added on a lighter note. “My mom says you’re going to love it.”

“Give me a clue,” I urged.

“No way!” he declared with a slight laugh. “You’ll just have to wait and see.” Then he said he had to go. He was on his way to his Russian literature class.

After telling Bess and George what Ned had told me, I smiled and said, “Can we please change the subject now?” Reaching for the hot sauce, I asked George if she’d told Bess everything that had happened yesterday at the Olsens’.

“Fill me in,” Bess urged.

While George gave a rundown of yesterday’s incident, I started to dig in to my lunch. I was wondering what sort of surprise Ned had for me on Saturday when I realized that George was once again complaining about having to wear the long dress on Saturday.

“People seemed so prim and proper in Jane Austen’s day,” she said. “It’s hard to believe that some women back then would wet their gowns to show off their figures.”

“Jane Austen thought it was vulgar,” Bess told her. “But she really wasn’t a stuffy person. She had a good sense of humor and enjoyed a little silliness now and then.”

“Like what?” I asked.

Bess smiled mischievously, revealing her dimples. “Like bullet pudding,” she said.

“Bullet pudding?” George and I exclaimed in unison. Then we laughed. Bess laughed too.

“What in the world is bullet pudding?” I wanted to know.

“Sounds criminal,” George added, putting down her fork.

So Bess explained how the British filled a large dish with flour, mounding it into a heap. Then they placed a bullet on the top of the mound. Everyone got a chance to slice into the flour. The unfortunate person who cuts the “pudding” when the bullet falls was expected to retrieve it — with her teeth!

“Can’t you just see Jane Austen poking around in that mess with her nose and chin?” Bess laughed.

George and I howled with laughter.

“What a hilarious party game!” I declared. Turning to George, I added, “I hope your mom is planning on serving it.”

“Yeah, I’d love to see Deirdre with flour all over her face,” George said with a grin, helping herself to a sopaipilla from the basket the waitress had brought to the table.

“And up her nose!” Bess added with a giggle.

We shared a few more laughs, and then George added, “Well, I doubt bullet pudding is on the menu, but my mom is making some weird things for Saturday’s tea.”

“What kind of things?” Bess asked, taking a sip of her soda.

“Well, she made lots of little pie crusts for something called treacle tarts,” George replied, wrinkling her nose. “And she’s making something called syllabub too.”

“ Syllabub?” I repeated. “Sounds like a word game to me. ‘Treacle’ sounds like leaking motor oil or something.”

Bess gave a hard, choking laugh and nearly snorted soda through her nose. George thumped her on the back. When she finally caught her breath, Bess explained. “ Treacle is just an old-fashioned word for ‘molasses.’”

“And syllabub?” I asked.

“I know what that is, too,” Bess said. “It’s a drink made with frothy cream or milk and flavored with cider and nutmeg. Sort of like egg nog.”

“But my mom is serving it like pudding in small custard dishes,” George explained.

Bess nodded. “You’ll like it. Wait and see.”

“I thought we’d be having scones with jam and little cucumber sandwiches,” I said. “You know, the usual tea party snacks.”

“Mom’s making those things, too,” George said. “She’s really going all out. That’s one reason she’s so concerned about what’s been happening at Cardinal Corners. She doesn’t want anything else to happen that might cause the other committee members to cancel the fund-raiser. My mom’s got a lot invested in this event. She’s donating all the labor and food and writing it off as advertising for her catering business. Hopefully she’ll attract lots of new clients after Saturday’s tea.”

“Nancy, what can we do to help?” Bess leaned forward eagerly.

“I’m glad you asked,” I said, shoving my plate to the side. “I want you to use your fix-it skills to disable a dumbwaiter, for one thing.” Then I told them about my brief visit with Chief McGinnis and, later, with Ms. Waters. I also mentioned my anonymous phone call that morning.

Bess shuddered. “That creeps me out!” she declared.

“You’ve got to be extra careful, Nancy,” George said.

“I will,” I promised. “But I’m more determined than ever to find out what’s going on out there at the B and B. It’s not fair that Mr. and Mrs. Olsen should have some jerk frighten them away from their business, not after they’ve worked so hard for so long to save up money to open the place.”

“Maybe it’s the gardener,” George suggested. “He seems liked a pretty surly guy, and Julia Jute said he was angry that he didn’t get a raise.”

“Yes, but Mrs. Olsen said he was a hard worker,” I reminded her. “It could be Emily Spradling. Maybe she’s really not as harmless and spacey as she seems.”

“You mean, you think Emily could be doing all these pranks herself?” George asked.

“No one has seen or heard the ghost except her. She’s even got a key to the house. She can let herself in and out without breaking and entering. She could be the one responsible for everything,” I mused aloud.

“But why would she want to cause troubles for the Olsens?” Bess asked. “They’ve given her a job, for Pete’s sake.”

“I don’t know,” I admitted.

“There isn’t much time to find out,” Bess reminded me. “Today is Wednesday. The tea party is supposed to take place on Saturday afternoon.”

“If it takes place at all,” George added gloomily.

“The show must go on,” I said, waving one hand dramatically. With the other, I reached for our tab. “Let’s go! We’ve got a lot to do and no time to lose.”

In the restaurant parking lot, I saw Charlie Adams with his emergency truck. From the look of things, someone had a dead battery, and Charlie was jumping the car. When he saw me, he waved.

“He’s got a crush on you, Nancy!” Bess giggled in my ear.

“We’re outta here,” George said, adding that she and Bess would meet me at the Olsens’.

I sighed and mustered up a smile as Charlie came striding eagerly toward me.

“Hey, Nancy, how are you?” he asked. “I saw you yesterday turning onto Highway Four. That was some storm, wasn’t it? It rained hard. I mean, it rained really hard. It rained so hard it could have strangled frogs.”

I laughed. “I saw you too, Charlie. Looked like you were giving someone a tow.” It was best to keep him talking about cars and trucks. Otherwise the poor guy would blush and stammer and get all tongue-tied. It was embarrassing. But what could I do?

Charlie nodded eagerly. “Yeah, some weird guy skidded off the road. Bright yellow car — one of those little Japanese imports. He said he wasn’t hurt, but I think he must have conked his head when he skidded into the ditch. He wouldn’t answer his cell phone when it rang — and it rang twice. He had lots of junk piled on the front seat. A real oddball.” Charlie shook his head wonderingly.

“Well, good to see you again,” I said lamely. “Take care.”

“Are you on another case, Nancy?” he asked in a breathless rush as I turned to go.

“Yes, I am,” I admitted. Then I pointed over his shoulder. “Looks like your customer wants to speak with you.”

The mechanic turned and saw the impatient businessman motioning for him to return. Charlie sighed. “Okay, Nancy, see you around,” he said. “Bring your little hybrid in sometime so I can check the belts. Can’t be too careful with belts.”

I smiled and promised I would. Then I hurried to my car and made my way to Cardinal Corners. I was beginning to feel the time crunch with this case. I thought of all the food Mrs. Fayne had already made for Saturday’s tea, and Julia’s altered frocks and Hannah’s door prizes. Chewing my bottom lip, I made up my mind not to waste a single minute the rest of the day. I had to figure out what was going on — and fast.

I caught up with George’s vehicle on the highway. As soon as we made the turn on the frontage road to Cardinal Corners, I kept my eyes open for the squad car Chief McGinnis had promised to send. I didn’t see one. I wondered if he forgot or simply hadn’t bothered.

After turning into the driveway and parking behind George’s car, I stepped out and waved at Mrs. Olsen, who came hurrying down the steps, looking pale and frightened.

“Oh, Nancy!” she called out. “Thank goodness you’re here!”

 

Conked Out!

 

“What’s the matter, Mrs. Olsen?” I asked after hastily introducing Bess.

“I don’t think I can take the harassment!” Mrs. Olsen’s voice cracked and her shoulders drooped. It looked like her short red hair hadn’t been combed since I saw her yesterday.

“Tell us what happened,” Bess urged. She placed a comforting hand on the woman’s arm.

“Last night more teapots were broken, despite the new security alarm, and we had a threatening phone call early this morning,” Mrs. Olsen said. “I don’t know who it was. Then Emily called in sick. Said she’d come down with the flu or something and wouldn’t be in the rest of the week.”

“Emily is lying,” Mr. Olsen spoke up as he joined us in the foyer. “She’s no sicker than I am.”

I introduced Bess to Mr. Olsen. They shook hands. “Emily is scared,” he added with a wry smile.

“After this morning’s phone call, I’m scared too,” Mrs. Olsen said.

“I told you we could rule out ghosts.” I tried to sound cheerful. “Generally ghosts don’t tamper with fuse boxes or make threatening phone calls. I got one too, warning me to stay away from here.”

“Oh, Nancy, we can’t ask you to keep working on the case now. It’s too dangerous,” Mrs. Olsen said with a worried frown.

“If you think an anonymous phone call can scare Nancy Drew off a case, you don’t know her very well,” Bess declared with a flush of pride. I cast a grateful smile in her direction.

“What did the caller say exactly?” George asked Mrs. Olsen.

“Did you recognize the voice?” I added.

“No, but it was a man’s voice — deep and gruff-sounding,” Mrs. Olsen replied. “He told us to leave Cardinal Corners or else. ”

“Whoever it is knows that you’ve called Nancy in to help,” Bess noted. “How many people know that?”

“Good question, Bess,” I said. “We’ll have to think about that later and make a list of possible suspects. Right now I want to look around outside. I’d like to talk with Juan Tabo, if he’s here today,” I added.

“I’ll come with you and show you around,” Mr. Olsen offered.

“But what am I going to do?” Mrs. Olsen asked helplessly. “I can’t possibly take care of everything that’s got to be done for Saturday’s tea without Emily, and my computer hasn’t been working since yesterday’s storm. I need to check if any customers made online reservations for the B and B. I don’t know what to do,” she said, throwing up her hands.

“Mrs. Olsen, let me look at your computer,” George offered. “I might be able to help.”

That’s an understatement, I thought. There’s hardly anything George doesn’t know about computers. She’s a genius! I’ve seen her hack into programs that are supposedly triple protected.

“After I get your computer up and running again, I’ll call my mom,” George added. “She has a list of kitchen assistants, pastry chefs, and linen service workers that she uses when she’s hired to cater an event. I’ll have her call someone to fill in for Emily for a few days.”

“Could you?” Mrs. Olsen asked. Her face lit up.

“Sure, no problem,” George said, and gave me a sidelong grin. “She can even round up some teapots to replace the broken ones.”

“Are you sure it won’t take up too much of your mother’s time?” Mrs. Olsen added. “I know how busy she is right now.”

“No trouble at all,” George assured her. “She has all the information right on her computer.”

“George created the bookkeeping and filing system for her mom’s catering business,” I explained. “She does all Mrs. Fayne’s scheduling and billing and even orders the supplies.”

“I’m impressed!” Mr. Olsen declared. “Carol and I should hire you to organize our computer files, too.”

“Sure thing,” George agreed. “But first let’s get that computer working again.”

As Mrs. Olsen showed George the computer, Mr. Olsen led Bess and me out the front door and down the steps into the yard.

There were two bright red cardinals drinking water from a nearby birdbath — the same bird that the Olsens had named Cardinal Corners for. We made a slow orbit around the house, taking the time to check the flower beds and windowsills, looking for footprints or smudges of any kind. But if the vandal had somehow made his way into the house through any of the first-story windows after disabling the alarms, then the rain had washed away any evidence.

“There sure are lots of trees over there,” Bess remarked. She pointed to the wooded area some distance from the house. “That would be a good place to hide,” she added, reading my mind.

“The trees are pretty thick in there,” I said. “Is that your property, Mr. Olsen?”

“Some of it,” the older man admitted. “There’s a little path that goes through the woods and down to the river. Then you’re on county land.”

“Any buildings back in there, like a storage shed or barn or something?” I asked.

Mr. Olsen shook his head. “Nothing but an old storm cellar,” he replied.

We’d been strolling purposefully around the property when we came to a small green garden shed with a slanted roof. Juan Tabo was coming out of the shed with a pair of hedge clippers in one hand.

“Hey, Juan!” Mr. Olsen called out. The gardener looked up and scowled when he saw us walking toward him.

“I understand he got pretty upset when you refused to give him a raise recently,” I said quietly.

Mr. Olsen looked surprised that I knew about this. He replied frankly, “We can’t afford to give him a raise until we’re officially open for business… and then only if things go well. Juan, come here,” he called out.

Juan propped the hedge cutters up against the open door of the shed and strode over — reluctantly, I thought. His dark eyes flickered briefly over me and then lingered on Bess’s face. His eyes widened a bit, and his mouth practically dropped open. I wasn’t a bit surprised. Bess is gorgeous, as I’ve said before. Most guys are dazzled when they meet her for the first time.

When Mr. Olsen told him I had a question or two, Juan pulled his gaze from Bess’s face and narrowed his eyes at me. “What about?” he snapped.

“Someone’s sneaking into the Olsens’ house and destroying private property,” I told him. “Mr. Olsen wants me to find out who it is.” Again I noted Juan’s watch and promised myself I’d find out how he could afford it.

“I don’t know anything,” Juan said irritably. He took a step backward and folded his arms across his chest. “You think I did this thing?”

“Not at all,” Bess spoke up. She gave Juan a beaming smile. “But Nancy needs to question everybody who might have seen someone sneaking into the house. Perhaps you’ve seen someone lurking in the woods.”

Disarmed by Bess’s warm smile and soothing tone, Juan appeared to relax. I took full advantage of my friend’s effect on him and jumped in with another round of questions.

“Have you seen anything suspicious? Perhaps someone snooping in the garden shed? Any trampled bushes or flowers near the windows? Strangers parked on the road watching the house?” I asked.

Juan shook his head. “Sorry, I’ve seen nothing like that.”

Turning to Mr. Olsen, I said, “And you haven’t seen any strangers, have you?”

Before Mr. Olsen could answer, Juan snapped his fingers and said, “Wait, I suddenly remember!” His dark face lit up. “A yellow car — a small one — parked in the woods. Back there,” he said, pointing, “near the river.”

“A small yellow car?” I asked. My pulse began to race with excitement as I remembered my earlier conversation with Charlie Adams.

“Yellow like a marigold,” Juan said with a vigorous nod.

“When was this?” I asked eagerly.

“Monday, for sure,” Juan said. “And another day last week. I don’t remember which. Is it important?”

“Yes, I think so,” I told him. “This could be our first real lead.”

“What were you doing down there by the river, Juan?” Mr. Olsen asked.

“I go down that way with my lunch sometimes. It’s quiet in the woods,” Juan added almost apologetically. “That’s when I saw the car.”

“Did you see the owner of the vehicle too?” Bess asked.

Juan shook his head. “I saw nobody. Just the little car.”

“Thanks, Juan,” I said. “You’ve been a big help. If you see the yellow car again, will you tell me or Mr. Olsen?”

He nodded. Then, casting one more admiring glance at Bess, he returned to the garden shed to retrieve his hedge cutters and resume his work.

“Bess, when I was talking with Charlie Adams in the parking lot after lunch, he told me he’d towed a bright yellow car near here yesterday during the storm,” I said.

“You sound pretty excited, Nancy,” Bess teased.

“I am,” I admitted.

“Do you think the car that was towed is the same one that Juan saw?” Mr. Olsen asked.