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ПРИЯТНОГО ЧТЕНИЯ!
Carolyn Keene
Nancy Drew Girl Detective: Volume Forty-Three
Serial Sabotage
Copyright, 2010, by Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Sabotage continues at the River Heights Carnival. On the morning of the Daughter of the River Heights parade, the ticket booth cash box is stolen. More mysterious blue notes appear, threatening to ruin the parade. And the biggest problem? Everyone is a suspect. Chairwoman of the Daughter of the River Heights, Mara Stanfield. Famous River Heights baker, Joshua Andrews. My longtime frenemy, Deirdre Shannon. Even my boyfriend, Ned Nickerson!
Everyone has a motive and Chief McGinnis is on the case, but the parade is only a few hours away and it is up to me and my friends to uncover the mystery. With only a little physical evidence and too many suspects, George, Bess, and I will all have to work extra hard to find the saboteur.
Will we be able to pull it off before it’s too late?
MISSING CASH BOX
“Fancy Nancy,” Mrs. Gruen said, knocking on my bedroom door. “It’s time to get up, dear. If it was left up to you, you would just sleep until noon and miss the parade completely. Now get up.”
I opened my eyes slowly but didn’t want to get up. The events of the previous day with the burn blog had completely exhausted me. Even though the burn blog mystery had been solved and Heather Harris busted for running the website, the threatening blue notes were still being written, and I had no idea who was behind them. Which was why I didn’t want to get out of bed, but Mrs. Gruen, our housekeeper, kept knocking on my bedroom door until I could no longer go back to sleep.
“Fancy Nancy,” she said again. “Are you awake, sweetie?”
“I’m awake,” I said. “And why are you calling me that name?”
She didn’t respond.
Classical music played quietly from the stereo in Dad’s study. This particular composer I couldn’t make out, as it sounded muffled through the floor, but I knew somewhere in the house Dad was conducting the orchestra. As far back as I could remember, Dad always loved classical music.
“Fancy Nancy, have you fallen back asleep? Don’t make me come in there.” I suddenly realized why Mrs. Gruen was calling me “Fancy Nancy.” When Lexi Claremont asked me to solve the case of the mystery blogger, I’d had to go undercover to fit in with her clique — which meant dressing in stylish, expensive clothes that were hardly my usual style. Instead of comfortable jeans and T-shirts, I’d been wearing outfits Bess had helped me pick out, like the cashmere sweater and plaid mini I’d had on the day before yesterday. Well, as long as Mrs. Gruen didn’t call me that in front of my friends, Bess and George, it was okay, but I also hoped she hadn’t told Dad about it.
“You are going to miss the parade if you stay in bed any longer.” Mrs. Gruen was a very kind and loving woman, taking care of both Dad and me, and so sweet. Who else would gently nudge me from my deep sleep and make sure that I made it to the River Heights Festival on time? She knew that if I was even ten minutes late, my good friend George would never let me hear the end of it.
I sat up in bed and was stretching my arms over my head when I smelled something amazing and delicious wafting up from the kitchen. I jumped out of bed and threw open the door. Mrs. Gruen stood in the hallway, a heavyset woman with her hair pulled back in a ponytail, her apron tied around her waist, arms folded over her chest.
“Is that what I think it is?” I asked.
“That depends on what you think it is,” she said.
I took my time, breathing in slowly, savoring every second of air. “That smells like Mr. Andrews’s banana bread.”
Mrs. Gruen smiled. “I picked it up special just for you this morning.”
I threw my arms around her neck and gave her the biggest hug I could muster this early in the morning. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you so much.”
“I know how much you like it, and he only makes it once a week, so in a sense I was forced to buy some. It’s like I didn’t even have a choice, really.” She winked at me before walking downstairs to the kitchen.
Joshua Andrews owned the local River Heights Bakery. He made the most delicious foods throughout the week and served pretty good coffee. Not quite as good as Club Coffee, but respectable. The one thing that Mr. Andrews did best of all, though, was banana bread. Once a week for as long as I could remember, Mr. Andrews would bake his famous batch of banana bread, and the line of people waiting to buy it would extend out the door and down the block. You had to get there early; otherwise the supply would run out.
I ran downstairs to the kitchen and found the banana bread on the counter, still warm, and with walnuts today. I served myself a thick slice. It tasted incredible.
Dad entered the kitchen with the newspaper under his arm and a cup of coffee in his hand. He kissed me on the forehead and smiled at the bread. “Hannah got that special for us today.” He was dressed for the office: suit pants, white button-down shirt, and an untied tie draped around his neck. His shirt and tie were both clean, without any stains, but the day was still early.
“I know,” I said almost incoherently, as I chewed on an enormous mouthful of bread. “It’s soooooo good.”
Dad smiled, but his smile dropped off his face when he looked at his hands. They were covered in black ink. “I swear,” he said. “The River Heights Bugle uses the worst ink. It comes right off on your fingers.” He walked to the sink and scrubbed his hands under warm water and with a lot of soap. He finally sat down at the kitchen table and unfolded his paper as the orchestra played louder — a crescendo, as Dad once taught me. He extended his index fingers and began cueing invisible stringed instruments and horn sections and kettledrums. The ink on his fingers was fainter, but not completely gone.
Mrs. Gruen walked behind him and shook her head, laughing. “Carson, you do love your classical music. Maestro Drew should be your name.”
Dad straightened his tie around his neck and began to tie it into a knot. “This is called a Windsor knot,” he said, showing Mrs. Gruen and me. “All the famous conductors wear Windsor knots.”
We both laughed at him, mocking his orchestral conducting by waving our index fingers through the air.
“Thank you again for getting this bread. It’s my absolute favorite,” I said.
“You know, Fancy Nancy,” Mrs. Gruen finally said, “Joshua Andrews was acting pretty strange today about his bread.”
“Really?” Dad said, adjusting his knot tight to his neck. “How so?”
“Well, I was the first one in line this morning, before he opened, and I overheard him on the phone inside. He was talking to Mark Steele.”
“He’s the head of the River Heights Carnival committee this year, isn’t he, Nancy?” Dad asked.
“Yeah, but why would Mr. Steele be speaking with Mr. Andrews?” I asked.
“Like I said, it was early, and I was the first one in line outside waiting for the store to open, so I could hear Joshua loud and clear. And, boy oh boy, was he furious. Apparently, Mark Steele refused to let Joshua rent a table at the carnival to sell his banana bread.”
“How strange,” I said.
“Indeed,” said Dad.
“The last thing I heard Joshua say was that he wasn’t going to let Mark Steele bully him around anymore.”
“Huh, I wonder why.” I finished my banana walnut bread, got up from the table, and kissed Dad good-bye, before returning to my room to get ready for the carnival.
As I got dressed, I remembered all the advice Bess Marvin, one of my best friends and the girliest of girls I know, had given me about how to dress for the fro-yo stand, so that I wouldn’t stand out from the other girls. It was part of my job to infiltrate their preppy clique and dress like them, but now that the mystery was solved, I wasn’t sure if I even had to return to the fro-yo stand. I actually hadn’t planned on returning, until Dad brought it to my attention that I had already committed to volunteering and that it would be bad form for me to cancel on them last minute. He was right, but he didn’t know these girls. And it wasn’t like I could just show up as me. I had to continue to fit in if I wanted to get through the day with my sanity intact.
I looked at myself in the mirror. Ugh, somewhere Bess was squealing again. Gray and blue mini. White polo shirt with a blue horse. Sunny yellow summer sweater draped over my shoulders, like Dad’s tie. And cute, white strappy kitten heels. Ugh, I hated these kitten heels. What self-respecting detective runs around a carnival solving crimes in kitten heels? My feet still ached from wearing them all yesterday.
My gasoline-electric hybrid car that Dad had bought me for my birthday eased into an open spot in the high school parking lot. Across the way, I could see the ticket booth where Ned was supposed to be volunteering, but I couldn’t see if anyone was inside yet. I was readjusting my sweater over my shoulders when a fist pounded down on the glass of my driver’s side window.
“Nice outfit, Fancy Nancy. You ready to make froyos all day?” George said, still pounding her fist on my car.
My heart raced into my throat, and after a few seconds to collect myself I realized she had called me Fancy Nancy. I opened my door. “What did you just call me?”
“Nancy,” she said.
“And?” I asked.
“Fancy in front of it. I called you Fancy Nancy. It was Mrs. Gruen. I called your house looking for you because you were, obviously, late and she said, ‘Little Miss Fancy Nancy has already left for the carnival and will be there soon.’”
I rubbed my head. “Do not call me that. And do not let anyone find out about it. Okay?”
“Sure thing,” George said, rummaging through her backpack.
“What do you have there?” I asked.
“I couldn’t wait to show this to you. Check it out.” She pulled a box from her bag and placed it in my hands. “It’s my new high-tech NASA-developed Element Disintegration Chemistry Set. It was developed for space walks so astronauts could collect data from the moon rocks and stuff, but now it’s used by crime scene investigators to analyze evidence.”
Georgia “George” Fayne, George being her self-chosen nickname, of course, always made me smile, even if her nickname was way cooler than “Fancy Nancy.” She was into her own things and didn’t care what anyone else thought. She loved being a technology geek and a whiz at electronics. Her favorite hobby was to buy old, broken-down computers and rebuild them from scrap parts. She had five working laptops that I knew of and probably a few more that didn’t work, waiting to be resurrected. This new über-science chemistry set was no different from the other hip-techno-supersleuth gadgets she spent her money on. But I had a feeling it would come in handy sooner than expected.
“George Fayne, where do you find out about these bizarre toys?”
“The Internet, naturally. And from my spy magazines. And my encyclopedias. And I read a lot of nonfiction about groundbreaking technology.”
“Of course you do.”
“Don’t you read about plaid minis and summer sweaters?” she said, teasing me.
“Quiet,” I said, locking my car behind me. “This outfit is in the name of fro-yo stands everywhere.”
We walked across the parking lot together and could see that a long, somewhat unruly line had formed rather quickly at the carnival ticket booth. The line was ten people deep — each person grumbling and muttering under their breath. George and I bypassed the angry line and cut directly to the side door. We knocked several times, but without any answer. I was beginning to think that maybe everyone was so upset because no one was stationed at the booth collecting money for their tickets, but just then the door swung open from all my knocking.
It was Ned. He didn’t realize George and I stood behind the door. He was clearly distraught. The booth looked like it had been hit by a tornado. Flipped and emptied boxes. Overturned chairs. Twisted blinds. Trash littered the floor.
“Ned,” I said, stepping into the booth. “What’s going on here?”
Ned turned, startled at first, but then threw his arms around me in a hug.
George looked at me, scared and confused, which was exactly how I felt, as this was not at all like Ned.
“Nancy. Nancy. I tried calling you. I am so glad you are here. I am in really big trouble. Super huge trouble.” He was pacing now, his hand wiping sweat from his forehead and under his eyes. “I mean, people say that all the time, that they are in serious trouble, but I really mean it. Oh wow. Oh boy. I need to sit down. I don’t feel good.”
George turned one of the chairs upright and placed it under him. “Sit down,” she told him. “We’re here, Ned. How can we help?”
“Tell us what happened,” I said. “Start from the beginning.”
“I came in this morning and opened up the ticket booth, right?”
“Okay,” I said.
“It was eight a.m., and the ticket booth wasn’t supposed to open for another hour. People kept calling and stopping by, asking me questions, and asking me for favors. I was tired and just wanted to rest a bit and be left alone before I opened the booth, so I thought it wouldn’t hurt if I just closed my eyes for a bit, you know. So I closed the door and rested. I didn’t sleep, obviously. But just rested.”
“Ned,” I said. “What happened?”
“Well, I closed my eyes, and it was only for a few minutes, I swear, because I was going to open the blinds and windows and get the tickets ready to sell, but when I woke up…”
“When you woke up?” George asked.
“When I woke up, the cash box… the cash box was gone.”
George and I looked at each other. Secretly and separately, I’m sure, we had both been hoping for a more relaxed day at the carnival, but here it was nine thirty in the morning and an angry mob of people milled outside the ticket booth, wanting to get into the carnival, but they couldn’t because another crime had been committed. Another case had presented itself. Another question needed an answer.
“Have you told Mr. Steele yet? I asked.
“Not yet. It all just happened so fast. I thought I would be able to find it.”
“Let’s all three look around the booth before we sound the alarms and get people involved,” I said. “Sometimes it’s a simple solution to a seemingly scary situation.”
“Good idea, Fancy Nancy,” he said.
I shot him a look of disdain. “Mrs. Gruen?” I asked him.
“George, actually. She told me that you had a new nickname,” he said.
George shrugged. “Now is not the time to be mad at me about your name. We have a cash box to find,” she said.
All three of us began to clean the booth as a means to undo everything Ned had done and search for the missing cash box. We flipped chairs upright and untwisted the blinds and put the trash back into the trash can and packed miscellaneous items like T-shirts and tickets back into boxes. Before long, the booth was put back together, everything in its appropriate place, and we hadn’t yet found the cash box.
“Oh boy,” Ned said, sitting down. “Oh man. I am in very big trouble.” He held his head in his hands.
“George, can you please go find Mr. Steele and ask him to come here? Ned, you need to stay calm and think about the last thing that you remember,” I said.
But just as I said that, the door to the booth swung open and Mark Steele stormed inside. A short man, balding, his clothes baggy and oversized from the weight he’d lost recently — oh, and very angry.
“Nickerson, do you know what I just found outside in the trash can?”
“No, sir,” Ned said, standing now.
I looked at George and whispered, “Looks like Mr. Steele is on the warpath.”
“I found the cash box,” said Mr. Steele.
“You did,” Ned said, excited and somewhat relieved.
“Don’t sound so happy, Nickerson,” Mr. Steele said.
“Why is that, sir?” Ned asked.
Mr. Steele opened the metal box, flipped it upside down, and shook it, but nothing fell or floated out of it. It was empty. He tossed the empty cash box into Ned’s lap.
“It’s empty?” asked Ned, lifting it, shaking it, running his fingers inside, hoping to find the money tucked away or stuck inside somewhere.
“Yes,” Mr. Steele said. “And you’re the last person in possession of it, so that begs the question: Ned Nickerson, why did you steal the River Heights Carnival money?”
FOUR SUSPECTS
“I’m afraid I am going to have to ask you to leave,” Mr. Steele said, snapping his fingers at George and me, pointing at the door.
We slid along the wall of the ticket booth, careful to stay out of angry Mr. Steele’s way, and stepped back outside. Mr. Steele slammed the door shut, but we could still hear his tirade inside as Ned tried to have a conversation. Ned sounded nervous and scared, I thought, because he felt bad about falling asleep, but something told me that there was more to this story. Someone was trying to frame him for the missing money, and I wasn’t about to let that happen. I pressed my ear to the door to listen.
“Explain to me what happened, Ned. Where did the money go?” asked Mr. Steele. “It has been an hour and a half since I saw you last. How could this have happened?”
“Well, sir, I arrived at the ticket booth this morning, unlocked the door, and everything was in place. I counted out the cash box money and it was all there: three hundred and fifty dollars,” Ned said.
“Ned, you understand that I have no choice but to involve the police? The carnival money is missing, and you cannot seem to shed any light on what happened here this morning,” Mr. Steele said.
“Mr. Steele, I unlocked the ticket booth and turned on all the lights. The money was here. And I began answering phone calls. People kept calling with questions.”
“What questions?” he asked.
“Like what time the parade began and what time the carnival opened.”
“And no one else was in here with you?” Mr. Steele asked.
George grabbed my arm. “Nancy, should we go in there and help Ned?”
“No,” I said. “We should stay out here and listen. The less Mr. Steele thinks we know, the more we’ll be able to help Ned.”
Ned continued, “A few people stopped by, but there is no way they could have gotten to the cash box.”
“Who?” Mr. Steele asked, his angry voice getting angrier, if that was even possible. “I would love to know who stopped by.”
“Well, Deirdre Shannon stopped by,” Ned said.
“For what? What could she possibly have needed?”
I looked at George and whispered, “Deirdre. We have our first suspect.”
“Second suspect,” George said. “Mr. Steele thinks Ned took the money. He’s the first suspect.”
As much as I hated to think about it, she was right. Ned was Suspect Number One.
Deirdre was Suspect Number Two.
Deirdre Shannon was a longtime acquaintance and former classmate of mine. Her father was a wealthy attorney, and she was always wearing the nicest clothes, so she would have no need for the carnival money. I couldn’t imagine that she’d stolen it, but I also couldn’t exclude her from the growing list of suspects. She was here before I arrived and therefore had to be considered as the possible thief. Not to mention the fact that she’d had a major crush on Ned for as long as I could remember. Maybe stopping by early in the morning was her way of flirting with him, but stealing the cash box money? It was too early to tell.
“What was Deirdre Shannon, the fro-yo stand girl, doing at the ticket booth?” Mr. Steele asked.
“She was carrying a few heavy boxes of cups and cones and ingredients for fro-yo, sir, and needed help getting them to her stand,” he said. “But I told her that I couldn’t help. I told her that I couldn’t leave the ticket booth unattended. Because of the money.”
“A lot of good that did you, kid. Who else stopped by?” asked Mr. Steele.
“Deirdre’s boyfriend, Josh, that scruffy-looking kid who’s always hanging around the fro-yo stand, he stopped by not too long after Deirdre,” Ned said.
Bingo. Suspect Number Three.
If Deirdre had a crush on Ned, my all-American, clean-cut boyfriend, then it made sense that her real-life boyfriend was the exact opposite. Josh fit more into a “bad boy” mold, the troublemaker category. He was tall and scruffy, with shaggy dark hair, a lanky build, and three-day-old stubble covering his chin and jawline. Josh wore loose, vintage-looking jeans with a studded belt and a tight-fitting white T-shirt. He’d worn the same thing for the past two days, and I was sure he would be wearing the same thing again today.
“Ned, you’re not instilling the greatest confidence here. What did he want?” Mr. Steele asked.
“He just asked to borrow some paper and a pen. I didn’t ask what for, but he seemed really nervous and upset, so I just gave it to them. But neither Deirdre nor Josh stepped foot into the ticket booth. Not one foot, sir. I made sure they stayed right outside.”
“Did you turn your back on them at all?” asked Mr. Steele.
“Yes, sir, but it was only for a few seconds at most.”
“Sometimes, Ned, all it takes is a couple of seconds.”
I wondered how many times in his life that grumpy old Mark Steele had said that sentence: Sometimes all it takes is a couple of seconds.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Steele. I really am, but the only other person who I saw this morning was Mara Stanfield. She stopped by, but just to make sure there was a volunteer working the ticket booth.”
Mara Stanfield, Suspect Number Four.
“That’s right, Ned. You are a volunteer. You offered to work this morning. We are not paying you to work, are we?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, then. As far as I can see, you are my number one suspect. You had access to the cash box and you have motive.”
“What motive?” he asked. “I would never steal money.”
“Son, your motive is not being paid. I’m sorry, but I am calling Chief McGinnis. I need to report this as a theft. To be honest, I’m not entirely convinced that you’re telling me the truth.”
“Oh, no. Nancy, what do we do?” George looked shocked and covered her mouth with her hand. “Ned is going to get arrested.”
As much as Mr. Steele thought he had this crime solved, his understanding of motive was wildly wrong. He should stick to teaching high schoolers and leave the mysteries to professionals. Chief McGinnis would understand that Ned didn’t take the money. I mean, where would he have stashed it? And that was all hinging on the fact that Ned had time to get away from the ticket booth. Between answering all the phone call questions and dealing with Deirdre, Josh, and Mara, when would he have taken the money? Or taken a real nap, for that matter?
Also, if Ned volunteered to work at the ticket booth, then he understood that he wouldn’t get paid. That wasn’t a motive. That was a fact. Now, if Ned had been forced to work at the ticket booth as some kind of punishment, then Mr. Steele would have a motive to pin to Ned.
This was all driving me crazy. I just want to burst into the ticket booth the same way Mr. Steele had done earlier and argue my case, but I knew better. If I was to help Ned, I needed to be subtle and almost invisible.
“Nancy, what do you want to do?” George asked.
“We have our suspects, George. But we need to find Bess to help us investigate. Have you heard from her at all?” I asked.
“Bess told me that she was arriving here early to inspect the float for the parade. But I haven’t seen her yet,” said George.
The door to the ticket booth swung open, and Mark Steele stepped out. Ned followed quickly behind and ran to me with a worried look in his eyes. Mr. Steele stood by the street, checking his watch and looking over his shoulder occasionally. He looked like he was about to rocket into outer space, fueled by anger. Ned just looked scared. I knew that he hadn’t taken the money, and it was now up to me to solve the mystery.
“Nancy, I didn’t do it. You have to believe me,” Ned said.
“I do believe you. Don’t worry. I just need some time to investigate and snoop around. I’m sure I’ll uncover who took the cash box money.”
A River Heights Police Department car pulled up to the curb in front of the ticket booth, and Chief McGinnis got out. He was a very tall man; over six feet, with bushy dark eyebrows and a large gut that hung over his police belt. I knew Chief McGinnis better than he knew me. Over the years, he had taken credit for many of the mysteries I had solved myself, but being a high school kid and not an official police officer, I was okay with that. My biggest problem with Chief McGinnis was the way he talked about a crime. He sounded so corny sometimes, like he was some kind of private investigator from an old black-and-white detective movie.
“Howdy,” Chief McGinnis said to Mr. Steele.
Gosh, he was cheesy. Who said the “howdy” anymore?
“Hey, Chief,” Mr. Steele said. “I got a really easy case here. I need you to arrest Ned Nickerson.”
Chief McGinnis laughed and placed his hand on his hip.
“What’s so funny?” said Mr. Steele.
“If I had a dollar every time someone asked me to arrest a person, I could retire to Florida in peace and leave this entire police racket behind,” he said.
“I mean it, Chief. I’m serious. Please arrest Ned Nickerson.”
“I know you’re serious, Mark.”
“Ned Nickerson stole the ticket booth money.”
“Okay, well, give me the facts,” Chief said. “Just the facts.”
Just the facts? Oh, jeez! This was going to be a long day.
Mark Steele put his arm around Chief McGinnis and spoke to him quietly. Both men looked up at Ned. Mr. Steele nodded accusingly in Ned’s direction as they walked out into the parking lot for privacy.
Just then Bess bounced across the parking lot with her shoulder-length blond hair and dimples, waving her arms in the air, running past the men. She sprinted toward us as we stood outside the ticket booth. It was great to see her, but George was always the one more likely to run across a parking lot, not Bess. George always had the new gadgets and gizmos that she couldn’t wait to show people. Bess was always extra careful, careful not to fall, not to mess up her new coat of nail polish, careful not to embarrass herself. Except for today. Bess definitely had something important to tell us.
The mob of people waiting to enter the carnival had gotten smaller since several other volunteers had arrived. They had obtained more money for the ticket booth and were making change for people to purchase tickets to gain entrance. Mr. Steele didn’t want to draw attention to the issue of the missing money and tried very hard to keep even Chief McGinnis’s presence from causing a stir.
“Fancy Nancy,” Bess said, finally stopping and catching her breath. She bent over, resting her hands on her knees.
“Seriously, what is with everyone calling me Fancy Nancy today?”
Bess looked at George, and they both smirked.
“Nancy, I saw Chief McGinnis,” Bess said. “What’s happening?”
“They think Ned stole the cash box money,” George explained.
Bess stood up straight and caught her breath. She put her hand on my shoulder and said, “Follow me.” She walked in front of us as she approached the Chief and Mr. Steele, stopping a few feet away from them. They didn’t acknowledge all of us standing there, so Bess cleared her throat so incredibly loudly that George and I started laughing. Ned didn’t think it was funny, but then again, he was being accused of stealing, so he didn’t have much of a sense of humor about the situation.
“What is it?” Mr. Steele asked, scowling. He obviously didn’t think it was funny either.
“Ned didn’t steal your money,” said Bess. “He’s innocent.”
“If I had a dollar for every time a random stranger told me someone was innocent, I could buy a boat down in Florida and sail all around the world,” said Chief McGinnis.
“He didn’t steal it,” Bess insisted. “I was the first person here this morning. Mara Stanfield asked me to be here in case the carpenters delivered the Daughter of River Heights float early.”
“Why you?” Mr. Steele asked.
“Because I helped sketch the design and directed the carpenter crew to make certain alterations, and Mara wanted me here to inspect the float first thing.”
“Well, where is it?” said Mr. Steele, his hands on his hips. “The float? I don’t see it.”
“It hasn’t come yet,” Bess said, getting a little annoyed. “But please listen. Ned arrived and never left the booth. Not once. If he never left the booth, then where did he stash the money? All you have to do is check his pockets and belongings.”
Chief McGinnis rubbed his forehead. “Not that I don’t believe you, but as a test, who else did you see this morning? Was there anyone else hanging around?” he asked Bess, testing her, I thought. Seeing if her story matched what Ned had claimed happened.
