Dare to read: Нэнси Дрю и Братья Харди
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ПРИЯТНОГО ЧТЕНИЯ!
Carolyn Keene
Nancy Drew Girl Detective: Volume Twenty-One
Close Encounters
Copyright, 2006, by Simon & Schuster, Inc
When George, Bess, and I headed to Brody’s Junction, Vermont, to help George’s cousin with her café’s web site and enjoy a brief vacation, we were looking forward to some downtime—not to landing in the middle of a media circus.
Hundreds of tourists have invaded the town to watch purported UFO sightings. Odder still are reports of townspeople being abducted, and the strange clues that seem to point to little green men as the culprits. All this speculation has the town going wild, and I hope to have a close encounter with some hard facts before things spin entirely out of control...
Let me introduce myself. I’m Nancy Drew.
My friends call me Nancy. My enemies call me a lot of other things, like “that girl who cooked my goose.” They actually sometimes speak like that, but what can you expect from criminals? See, I’m a detective. Well, not really. I mean, I don’t have a license or anything. I don’t carry a badge or a gun, in part because I wouldn’t touch a gun even if I could, and also because I’m just not old enough. But I am old enough to know when something isn’t right, when somebody’s getting an unfair deal, when someone’s done something they shouldn’t do. And I know how to stop them, catch them, and get them into the hands of the law, where they belong. I take those things seriously, and I’m almost never wrong.
My best friends, Bess and George, might not totally agree with me. They tell me I’m wrong a lot, and that they have to cover for me all of the time just to make me look good. Bess would tell you I dress badly. I call it casual. George would tell you I’m not focused. By that she’d mean that once again I forgot to fill my car with gas or bring enough money to buy lunch. But they both know I’m always focused when it comes to crime. Always.
Nancy Drew
Out of This World
“I love the smell of Vermont in November!” my best friend Bess Marvin declared as I drove down the twisty mountain road. In spite of the chilly air, Bess had the window down and her long blond hair glinted in the afternoon sun.
“Personally I think it all looks a bit bleak,” George Fayne remarked. George, Bess’s cousin and my other best friend, was sitting behind us. Too leggy for the backseat, George shifted restlessly as she added, “This is primo downhill skiing country—and we’re here too early to enjoy it.”
I grinned to myself. Dark-haired George was definitely from the glass-half-empty side of the Fayne-Marvin family. “If it was ski season, your mom’s friend Winnie couldn’t have spared the time to visit with us,” I told her. “My dad always says this is the time of year when all of Vermont looks like pumpkin pie. We should enjoy it.”
“Pumpkin pie—now that’s a thought,” George said, immediately heartened by the prospect. “Winnie bakes a mean one. Hope she has it on the menu tonight.” After cooking school Winnie Armond had opened a gourmet café in a small town in Vermont; Mrs. Fayne had become a caterer.
We were now on our way to visit Winnie, but I was beginning to wonder if we’d ever get there.
Scenic as the mountain road was, I was getting impatient. Had I taken a wrong turn back at the Burlington airport? And why was the traffic so heavy? I couldn’t do much about the traffic, but I could check our directions.
Just when I was about to pull over and look at the map, Bess spotted a sign.
“You are now entering Brody’s Junction, Vermont,” she read aloud.
George cheered.
“All right!” I said. I hate being lost for long.
Bess took in the view. “Brody’s Junction sure is worth the long drive. It’s exactly like a Hollywood set for a New England country town!”
“If you edited out the traffic,” George remarked.
“A real-time special effect—too bad you can’t work that kind of movie magic on your laptop!” I said. She took up the challenge good-naturedly. “When we get to Brody’s Junction, I’ll give it a try—or at least attempt to program a kill-the-traffic computer game.”
After passing through a small covered bridge, we emerged in the heart of the town. Made up of mainly wooden two- and three-story buildings, Brody’s Junction’s main drag looked like tourist heaven.
Past the line of cars and SUVs, I spied the steeple of a white clapboard church rising above the tree-lined town square. Beyond the town lay steep-sided hills dotted with barns, silos, and cows. Looming over everything was a tall rugged mountain, its sides scarred with ski runs. Towers for the idle lifts glinted like gold in the afternoon light.
A state trooper directing traffic stopped us at a congested intersection.
“Here’s a traffic mystery for you, Nancy,” George teased. “Winnie said this was off-season. Why, then, all the cars?”
The suggestion made me laugh. “I hate to admit it, George, but when it comes to unraveling the riddle of traffic jams, even I’m clueless.”
Maybe I should explain the mystery bit. My name is Nancy Drew, and back home in River Heights I have a rep as a pretty good amateur detective—solving real crimes and helping cops capture bad guys. My friends sometimes rib me about my tendency to land smack in the middle of a whodunit even when I’m on a shopping spree or just hanging with them and having fun.
Frankly, at the moment nothing about this quaint town seemed at all mysterious—except the traffic. I had to agree with Bess, the place did look like a movie-location scout’s dream: Craft shops, art galleries, an ice cream parlor, bakeries, and upscale clothing boutiques lined each side of the street.
At the end of the next block I spotted a green and white awning. “George, that’s the place—Winifred’s Café—right?”
“Right,” George answered. “She said there’s extra parking behind the restaurant.”
I flicked on my right-turn blinker and pulled into one of the few empty spots in the lot.
Like many of the other storefronts Winifred’s Café was housed in a gleaming white clapboard building. Bay windows framed the entrance. The luscious aromas of something baking wafted out onto the street through the screen door.
“This place smells like heaven!” Bess remarked as she tried the handle on the door. In spite of a CLOSED sign the door opened to the jingle of little bells. A woman looked up from behind the counter. “We’re closed...,” she started to say, then spotted George. “George Fayne, I can’t believe you’re finally here! I had almost given up on you guys,” she said. She hurried over, hugged George, and grinned warmly at Bess and me. She intro duced herself as Winnie.
She was in her early forties, with the figure of a twenty-year-old, seriously curly dark hair, and a fresh, rosy complexion. Her brown eyes sparkled as she ushered us farther into the restaurant. A waiter was setting up the tables for dinner, and a young man in an apron was writing that night’s specials on a chalkboard. He looked about the same age as Ned, my boyfriend back home. He was lanky with dark blond hair, and when he turned to greet us, I noticed his unusually large green eyes, framed with dark lashes.
Winnie introduced the man as Joel, her apprentice, and the waiter as Mary Beth. “I’m so glad you finally got here,” Winnie said. “Better call your mom. I just got off the phone with her, and she’s worried.”
While George took her cell and phoned home, I decided it might be good to call my dad. He was glad to hear from me, but he hadn’t expected me to phone home so soon. When my friends and I are on short breaks like this, I sometimes forget to even call—I’m having too much fun.
After I’d shut my phone and put it into my pocket, I went to explain the traffic problem we’d had to Winnie, and to ask about the unexpected crowds in town. She seemed flustered, though. Stressed. And I couldn’t help but wonder if somehow our visit, though expected, was ill timed.
“I could scare up some coffee and sandwiches for you now, if you’re hungry,” she offered. “Though it might be better to get settled into your digs first. Can you hold off until dinner? I’ve reserved a table here for the three of you for the late seating—‘late’ meaning eightish.
“Sorry I can’t put you up myself,” she explained, “but my apartment above the restaurant is small, and I haven’t got a spare room. Fortunately, I made reservations a month ago for you at the Under Mountain Inn—before the crowds hit. The inn’s old, but modernized, so you’ll be comfortable. It’s within walking distance from here and all the shopping.”
George put her hand on Winnie’s shoulder. “Hey, whatever! I’m sure the inn’s great. But why all the tourists? Isn’t it off-season?”
Winnie made a face and dropped her voice. “I should be grateful. We need the business around here after the past two years. There’s been no snow... and it’s been too warm for the snow-making machinery to work well. Ski season’s been a total loss, and then this year, with the summer drought followed by all that October rain, leaf season was a disaster. The whole area is depressed.”
“It sure doesn’t look it now.” I motioned to outside the bay window. People strolled down the sidewalks, dipping into stores. The cars were moving at a crawl.
“Exactly. Which is why I should be happy.” Winnie shrugged. “And I am... at least financially. I can barely keep up with the business. But it’s too much. And with the TV crew, the media, and the increased police presence, Brody’s Junction feels more like Boston than home these days.”
“TV crew?” Bess repeated, and moved closer to the window. “Is some new show set here?”
Mary Beth looked up from setting a table and giggled. “You’re kidding, right? Like, you haven’t a clue?”
For a moment Winnie looked at George, puzzled, then threw her hands up. “Of course. Why should you girls know what’s going on here? I guess the news hadn’t hit River Heights before you left town.”
“What news?” George asked, sounding as impatient as I felt.
Joel made a spooky theatrical sound, then grinned sheepishly as Winnie warned him off with a hard look. “They aren’t from around here, Joel.” She turned back toward us. “It seems we’ve been invaded not just by tourists—but by aliens.”
Reel TV
“Aliens?” I wasn’t sure I’d heard right.
“As in people from other countries?” George suggested.
Joel jumped right in. “Nope.” He looked gleeful. “More like creatures from another planet. ”
“As in UFOs?” George looked dubious.
“As in UFOs,” Winnie repeated, sounding a little flat. For some reason she didn’t seem to share Joel’s enthusiasm for their extraterrestrial visitors.
“Right!” Bess caught my eye. Her expression mirrored my own skepticism. “Aliens, like in the movies.”
I waited for Winnie to start laughing.
She didn’t.
“You’re kidding, right?” This had to be some kind of joke.
She shook her head. “It isn’t. Not that I’m convinced they’re real,” she added quickly. “But lots of people are buying into it.” She motioned out the window. A white van with a national cable network logo was stopped at the light. It sported a satellite antenna on top.
“The media sure hope the UFOs are the real deal,” Joel pointed out.
Just then, someone called from the kitchen. “Scarletti, get in here... Something’s weird with this sauce.”
“Duty calls. Be right there,” Joel shouted back. “See you guys,” he said, as he disappeared into the back of the restaurant.
Winnie let out a tired sigh. “And that’s the problem... Everyone is so distracted and excited by all the craziness—TV crews, crowds, reporters—they’re making mistakes.” She gave a meaningful glance to Mary Beth, the waiter, who was still setting up for dinner. “My waiters are constantly poking their heads outside to check the sky for spaceships. The one saving grace is that the customers are equally distracted. But in the long run I’m wondering if these UFOs are going to hurt the dinner trade.”
“The aliens turn up at dinnertime?” George said with a straight face.
Winnie cracked a smile. “Seems that way. They favor night-time. Though I recall there was at least one daytime sighting.”
Why mainly at night? I wondered, as George spoke up. “Looks to me like your visitors from outer space have put Brody’s Junction on the map.”
“UFOs in Vermont?” Bess started to giggle. “It’s too much. Little green men, deciding to land in the Green Mountain State!”
“Maybe they’re little red men wearing green snowsuits,” George suggested.
“Martian fashionistas!” I laughed.
“Laugh if you want,” Mary Beth said, looking up from behind the counter. She had picked up a fresh supply of napkins. The real fear in her voice wiped the smile right off my face. “But the state police, the sheriff, the mayor, and the crew of a reality TV show are taking them seriously. Even the FBI has sent investigators.”
“The FBI?” Maybe this was a bigger deal than we were making it out to be.
“Yes, even the FBI,” Winnie said, then turned to give some instructions to Mary Beth.
The possibility of UFOs and all the publicity surrounding sightings explained away the mystery of the traffic and the increased police presence in the small town. “How come it’s not on the national news?” I asked.
Winnie shrugged. “The first sightings didn’t cause much of a stir. Most folks around here thought the kids reporting seeing UFOs on a Friday night had either been partying too hard or were playing pranks. Even when they had pictures.”
“There are pictures?” Bess looked interested.
“Computer generated,” George predicted. “Altered through a photo program.”
“No one’s been able to tell either way, though the FBI took the photos with them for forensic studies.”
“Which proved what?” I asked.
“Nothing yet,” Winnie answered. “Or at least no one is talking about what they might have found. But there are experts from NASA in town, plus all this press—which leads me to think they probably turned up something. The national media will be broad-casting this news this weekend, for sure. Joel tells me the latest local blogs are full of the reports. I’m surprised you didn’t come across them, George,” Winnie said.
George’s reputation as a technophile preceded her. She shrugged. “I saw some stuff, but didn’t bother to read it. Nuts are constantly reporting alien sightings online. I ignore them.”
“Is this the first time national TV networks have bothered to send reporters?” I asked, looking out the window as the cable network’s van made a left at the corner. Watching it made my spirits sink. Who wanted to spend a vacation in the middle of some crazy media circus? Then again... there could be a real mystery here.
Winnie nodded. “Makes it all seem more real.”
George turned toward Winnie. “Tell me, you don’t really believe in UFOs, do you? Have you ever seen them yourself?”
“Yes,” Winnie said. “Twice. But,” she added pointedly, “that doesn’t mean they’re the real thing. Half the troopers are convinced they’re hoaxes. But once the Reel TV crew airs its footage next week, half the UFO fanatics in the country are going to invade this town big-time.”
I had watched Reel TV ’s reality show once or twice. Personally I couldn’t believe anyone was taken in by their investigations of paranormal situations. “So that explains all the ‘No Vacancy’ signs on the motels and inns on the way here,” I remarked.
“I wish I’d bothered to read the online reports. Maybe I will now.” George walked over to Winnie’s laptop open on the counter. “Can I log on now? My computer’s still back in the car.”
“You can’t. My system keeps crashing. Maybe you can find the problem. Everything’s affected: my e-mail, my address book, my website, and today I couldn’t even access any of my bookkeeping programs.”
George peeled off her down vest. “Maybe it’s a virus. Let me check it out.”
Winnie stopped her. “Not now, George. I’ve got to get into the kitchen and deal with dinner, and you guys must want to settle in after your trip. My friend Sarah Conway, the owner of Under Mountain Inn, called. She’s holding your room. Given the crush of tourists, you’d better check in now. You’ll like Sarah. She’ll make you feel right at home.”
“Okay,” George said. “I’ll run some diagnostics on your system after dinner, if you feel it can wait. We can catch up on family news then—Mom’s dying to know what’s new with you and the café.”
Under Mountain Inn was all that Winnie had promised, and I was secretly pleased that she had lacked the room to put us up herself.
The three-story white building had several gables with steeply sloped black slate roofs. Green shutters framed the windows. Several hearty souls were parked on wicker benches on the wrap-around porch, watching the sun slide down behind the low hills to the west of town. In the fading afternoon light a single electric candle burned in every window, giving the establishment a cozy, welcoming look. An inscription over the front door said the original inn, parts of which were still standing, dated from 1801.
I couldn’t help but think that if the place hadn’t looked so well-kept and freshly painted, it would have been the perfect setting for a ghost story. Old-fashioned and creepy. Instead, though, it was modernized, refreshed—and beautiful.
When we arrived, a woman was on the phone behind the reception desk. While we waited to register, I looked around. The lobby was spacious and welcoming. It flowed into a large, comfortable lounge generously furnished with an assortment of couches and overstuffed easy chairs. A cozy fire burned in the fireplace, and at the far end of the room an archway opened into a dining room.
As soon as she hung up the phone, the woman introduced herself as Sarah Conway, the innkeeper. When we mentioned we were Winnie’s guests, she hurried out from behind the desk and warmly pumped our hands. “Winnie told me all about you girls.” Turning toward George, she said, “I know you from the pictures of you and your mom that Winnie has up in her apartment. One of you is Bess, and the other is Nancy—the amateur detective!” She looked from me to Bess and back at me again. “You’re Nancy, right? And you”—she looked at Bess—“must be Bess.”
“I’m impressed.” I laughed. “How did you know?”
Sarah blushed. “I’ve seen Bess’s picture too—after all, she’s George’s cousin, and there are photos from that family reunion a few years back.”
After calling for someone to cover the desk, Sarah personally escorted us to the third floor. She was open-faced and talkative, and seemed determined to give us special treatment because we were Winnie’s friends. “I hate putting you all into such cramped quarters,” she apologized as she climbed the stairs ahead of us.
Our room was at one end of the long hall. “At least you get a view of the mountain.” She unlocked the door. “I put you guys in the best room I could spare up here. The other two are rented out to the TV crew. They haven’t got the view.”
True to her word, the room was barely large enough for three twin beds and one rocking chair. A large old-fashioned wardrobe stood next to a dresser. Tieback curtains framed each of the two windows: One provided a view of the mountain, and the other opened onto a fire escape.
“Winnie probably told you about the tourist invasion. Not that anyone in town is complaining,” Sarah told us.
George looked up from rummaging in her duffle bag. “Mom had mentioned that Winnie was having second thoughts about refinancing the café because things were so slow. We were amazed to see everything booming.” While George talked, she stowed her computer and backpack on top of the wardrobe. She deposited her running gear onto the bed. Earlier she had announced we were all in dire need of a good run—particularly after sitting so long all day, and with the prospect of a gourmet calorie-laden dinner facing us that evening.
While we unpacked, Sarah continued to talk. “The UFO sightings took everyone by surprise. Most tradesmen and merchants are pretty happy about it. It’s hard for the restaurants to handle the crowds, though. Take Winnie’s place, for instance. It’s all too much to deal with on top of her other problems.” Abruptly she stopped and checked her watch. “But don’t get me started about Winnie and her life. Likely you’re more in the know than I am,” she said to George. “I’ve got to get downstairs, pronto. The TV crew pulled in just before you girls. The producer was pretty miffed they couldn’t have the whole place to themselves—offered me good money too, but I’m not going to turn down the few regulars I have this time of year to put those people up! The minute some hot new story breaks, they’ll drop the UFO angle and be gone. Fat lot of good that’ll do me next year.” With that, she hurried out the door.
I waited until I heard her footsteps fade down the hall. “Is Winnie in some kind of trouble?” I asked George.
“Other than slow business, nothing I’ve heard about.” As George changed into her sweats, she added, “Mom would have mentioned anything serious—I think.” However, George appeared worried as she stuffed her duffle under the bed.
Bess tried to reassure George. “You’re right. If Winnie’s problems were superserious, your mom would have told you.” As she put on a vintage River Heights High letter jacket, she added, “More to the point, Winnie would have asked us to postpone this trip.”
“Bess is right,” I said. “Unless, of course, Winnie never told her something was wrong—or something cropped up after we left.”
“Maybe Mom just didn’t feel free to share all of Winnie’s problems with me,” George said. “Whatever—I’m glad we’re here. Maybe we can help her out.” George put one foot up on the dresser and began doing her pre-workout stretches.
“Good thinking,” I added. “As soon as I’ve worked out and before we come back to change for dinner, I’m going to corner Sarah and find out what she didn’t tell us.”
Bess laughed. “That won’t take much prodding. She looked ready to burst out every detail... until she realized how late it was. Which reminds me, we’d better go running now, or we’ll be late for dinner.”
Bess had a point. Frankly, I was ready to skip the run. Sarah’s comments had stirred my curiosity. It sounded like Winnie was in trouble—and I was confused about why George had had no idea at all.
As we headed out for our run, we saw the inn’s staff gathering luggage from the reception area and carting it upstairs. Members of the Reel TV crew—the name was on their jackets and sweatshirts—were sorting shiny metal film canisters and camera equipment. The crew milled around the front desk as Sarah registered the new arrivals.
She waved as we passed. “Have a good run,” she called out. She started to say something else, but a siren’s wail drowned out her next words.
“Sounds like a fire somewhere,” I said, hurrying over toward the porch. The door flew open in my face, and a dark-haired man stepped through the entrance, blocking my exit. He was only a little taller than me.
He swept a shock of straight black hair back from his forehead, and he shouted, “Izzy, they’re back.” Without waiting for a response, he raced back out. I followed him. I watched from the porch steps as he tore over to a white van idling by the curb. He threw open the back doors.
Before I could see what he was unloading, Bess and George hurried out onto the porch. “What’s going on?”
“I’m not sure,” I answered. People were pouring out of shops, restaurants, and houses, streaming toward the town square. “Maybe there’s a fire somewhere.”
“No,” Sarah cried. “Like he said, they’re back.” She grabbed my arm and half pulled me along with her. “Come on, girls,” she shouted to Bess and George. “If it’s anything like last time, you’ll get a better view from the square.”
The town square was packed, and we were relegated to the back of the crowd. All heads were turned skyward. Sarah pointed toward the east over the mountain. Circles of light revolved slowly against the deepening blue sky. They hung, suspended, over the meadow for a moment. Then they swept the circumference of the field and hovered.
The effect was hypnotic.
“This is totally unreal,” I murmured. It had to be a hoax. Right?
Skywatch
In spite of myself I was spellbound. I gaped as the revolving spheres of light descended in lazy circles over the meadow. Though they were bright, their eerie glow barely lit the ground, and I wondered why.
Whatever those lights were, I could not believe they were spaceships. But why didn’t they make any noise? These didn’t look in the least like gliders—how could they fly without engines? There was absolutely no sound, though. The objects floated across the sky in complete silence.
The same silence seemed to have smothered the excited chatter of the crowd. I shifted my gaze away from the sky and glanced around. All eyes were turned up.
The eerie quiet sent a chill up my spine.
Somewhere behind me and to my left, a camera whirred. Someone was filming the event.
As I checked to see who, a gasp went up from the crowd. I quickly looked back up at the sky, just in time to see the flying objects change course. First they spiraled sharply upward, and then, with no warning, they vanished in a blinding flash of light, leaving only the stars and constellations twinkling overhead.
Instantly the spell was broken. The town square erupted in cries and comments and exclamations. Everyone began talking all at once.
“Why are they here?” one voice said.
“No good reason, I’ll tell you that.”
“Don’t jump to conclusions,” someone contradicted. “They’ve been quiet and peaceful. They haven’t threatened us.”
“They will,” another person responded. “They will. And the government knows all about it—why else would the Feds be here?”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Apparently no one doubted the UFOs were real. No one but me, it seemed.
Bess shook my arm. She looked incredulous. “Tell me you saw what I just saw.”
“I saw something, ” I answered. There had to be some sort of rational explanation for what had just happened over that mountain.
“So I wasn’t imagining things.” Bess dug her fists deep into her jacket.
“If you were, so was everyone else,” George broke in. “Pretty convincing special effects,” she suggested.
“But how?” I asked.
“Beats me,” George said. “At least it’s caught on tape! That guy we saw at the hotel, the one who tipped us off about this, was right behind me. He filmed the whole thing.”
“Oh, right,” Sarah said, shivering in the cold. “That was the cameraman from the Reel TV crew. Pretty amazing, those folk turning up just in time for a sighting.”
“They’re staying at your inn, aren’t they?” another woman asked Sarah. Sarah told her yes, most of them. The two women then began discussing the sighting, as the crowd continued to disperse.
Most of the spectators were heading back to cars, or to shops and restaurants. A few groups, including some state troopers, hung back, milling around the square. A couple of patrol cars, lights flashing, sirens blasting, raced down the road leading east. I figured they were going to the area of the sighting. I wished I was going with them. I wanted to take a firsthand look at that meadow, check out the ground for evidence—not that I could see much in the dark. I found it hard to believe these UFOs were real.
Apparently, so did George.
“I wish I had my camera,” George grumbled. “There was something fishy about those UFOs.”
“I didn’t notice anyone taking pictures,” I admitted. “Just that one guy from the TV show. Though I’m sure other people taped the event.” It was hard to imagine tourists without cameras and camcorders.
“Even if people did film the sighting, I wouldn’t have noticed,” Bess said. “I was afraid to look away from the sky in case when I looked back, the UFOs would be gone.”
I had felt something similar—as if I was compelled to look. What troubled me most was their silence. “Did you notice they made no noise?”
“They never do.” A smug voice announced from behind me.
I turned to face a thin bearded man. He was about five-foot-ten and had glasses mended with a piece of adhesive tape across the nosepiece. Decidedly dorky, he was probably twentysomething, but he was already balding, and his circle of stringy blond hair hung down almost to his shoulders. His clothes looked seriously thrift store, but they were clean.
He smiled at me. His straight white teeth were at odds with his wardrobe and his straggly beard. l found his smile unnerving, and his smug tone bordered on offensive.