by Chelsea Cain
When my plane landed in San Francisco, I collected my old blue suitcase and got in line for a shuttle bus. As you may be aware, at that time San Francisco was a great gathering place for young people from all over the country. These young people grew their hair long and wore untailored, unironed clothing. While I had briefly encountered bohemian types shoplifting at Burk's, I was looking forward to experiencing the counterculture firsthand. I had stood in line only a few minutes when I was approached by one of its representatives.
"Hey, sister," asked a shaggy-haired youth behind me in line, "where are you headed?"
I told him the address of the house that Ned Junior shared with several other young adults.
His saucer-sized eyes lit up. "That's in the Haight, man. That's where we're headed." He shot a thumb behind him to three other bohemian-clad youths. "Do you have any bread?"
"Bread?" I asked.
"Money, man. 'Cause Jim has a van in short-term parking. We just don't have enough gas to get across town, dig? You throw in some bread and we'll take you to the Haight."
I climbed carefully into the back of Jim's red VW microbus, modestly adjusting my paisley skirt as I tucked my orthopedic shoes under my legs and took a seat on a stained mattress.
One of the two girls in the youthful company took a seat beside me, grinning widely. "I'm Starfire," she announced. "Jim and I have a pad together. Coyote, there"—she pointed to the shaggy-haired youth who had approached me—"just got back from five months in Europe."
I glanced at the other girl, a young teenager with a freckled face and short, sandy curls, who sat curled glumly against the door. "And who's that?" I asked.
Starfire shrugged. "Oh, that's Foxy. We picked her up hitching on the way here. She's from a farm in New York or something." Starfire leaned a little closer to me. "There are a lot of runaways here," she confided.
Foxy looked up at me, her blue eyes flashing in defiance. Of course I would have known her pert nose and rolled-up dungarees anywhere. This wasn't just any runaway; this was Foxy Belden-Frayne, the daughter of Crabapple Farm's own sleuth, Trixie Belden.
The bus came to a stop at the corner of Haight and Ashbury. There was a great deal of activity outside. Young people in colorful dress filled the streets. A ragtag marching band was performing while a group of young women danced without their tops.
"There's some sort of parade," Jim informed me. "We're going to have to let you out here. Just walk a block that way." He pointed up a sloping hill.
I leaned toward Foxy. "Do you have a place to stay?" I asked.
She shook her head.
"You can stay with me." I held out my hand. "Come on."
She hesitated for a moment, then took my hand, and we climbed out of the bus into the Summer of Love.
"Do your parents know where you are?" I asked Foxy as we negotiated our way through the circus atmosphere of the Haight.
She clenched her teeth. "Jeepers, no!" she declared with a dismayed grimace. "They understand me about as much as a bobcat understands a copperhead!" She tossed her curls defiantly.
"Listen," I replied, "I've met your mother. She must be worried sick."
"I know I'm a goop," Foxy shrugged. "Moms and Daddy are tops, and Aunt Honey is the best. But sometimes a girl just has to get out on her own, you know?" Her blue eyes snapped with excitement as she surveyed the colorful people and shops all around us. "We just don't see this sort of thing in Westchester County."
We came to a tall Victorian that stood in some disrepair next to a noodle shop. A large banner with a peace symbol painted on it adorned the front window. I checked the address in my purse. This was it.
Foxy and I climbed the rickety steps of the house. The doorbell was not working, so I rapped on the oval window of the front door. In a few minutes, a bearded, long-haired young man appeared, rubbing his eyes. I recognized his ensemble as typical of the so-called hippie scene: blue jeans, an Indian-style shirt, a bandana tied around his forehead, and no shoes.
I put on my most dazzling smile. "Hello," I declared brightly, "I'm looking for Ned Junior. Please tell him that I have come to call on him."
The youth blinked several times. "Mom?" he asked.
I examined the youth for clues. His hair was titian. "Ned Junior?" I asked. "Is that you?"
He looked stricken. "What are you doing here?" he demanded.
"I wanted to surprise you," I explained. "I'm here for a week. Aren't you going to invite us in?" After seeing his long hair and beard, I understood why he hadn't come home that Christmas.
"Who's that?" he asked, pointing at Foxy.
"That's Foxy Belden-Frayne."
Foxy took a small step forward. "My mom's a pretty famous detective in Westchester County, New York," she explained. She blushed modestly. "And I'm not so bad myself."
Ned Junior swallowed hard and opened the door a little wider so we could enter.
That night we sat on the floor of the living room eating rice that one of Ned Junior's housemates had prepared with Ned Junior and eight other young people. They all eyed me suspiciously.
A grim-looking young woman wearing a black turtleneck and blue jeans sat down next to Ned Junior. I saw her jut her chin my direction. "Who's she again?" she demanded.
"My mom," Ned Junior replied.
The woman's brows shot up. "Nancy Drew?"
"Nancy Drew."
"Man," the woman declared, rolling her eyes, "that is so square."
Ned Junior bit his lip, eyes burning. His housemates continued to stare. "I really wish you'd called first, Mom," Ned Junior shared for the fifth time. "We have a lot going on this week."
I sat up. "Is there a mystery? Can I help find something for you?"
He sighed. "No, Mom. We're organizing a demonstration for free speech."
"You should plant clues all over the city that people could follow to the demonstration site," I suggested.
"No, Mom. It's not a scavenger hunt. It's a protest. We're expecting thousands of people."
"Any villains?"
He groaned helplessly. "Not like the ones you mean."
"Oh." I examined my bowl of rice sadly.
"You really miss it, don't you?" Ned Junior asked softly. "Amateur detecting."
I shrugged and put on my bravest face. "There just aren't any good mysteries anymore," I replied casually.
A tall, skinny youth in a cowboy hat and Indian caftan sidled up to Foxy. "So how old are you, anyway?" he asked.
"Fifteen," Foxy told him. "I'm a Junior Bob-White."
"What's a Junior Bob-White?" the cowboy asked, confused.
Foxy grinned indulgently. "Our super-special club, of course!" She slugged him playfully on the arm and he withdrew befuddled, rubbing the spot where she'd hit him. "Jeeps," Foxy whispered to me. "We'd never let any of these kids in the Junior Bob-Whites. I bet they couldn't birth a foal if the mare's life depended on it!"
I awoke early the next morning and rolled up my bedsheet from the place on the floor where I had slept next to Foxy and four strangers. The others were all still asleep, so I decided to go for a walk to get some air.
I left the house and headed down to Haight Street. It was early enough that the street traffic was sparse and many of the small shops had yet to open. I was standing in front of a clothing store, admiring a slimming blue skirt in the window, when I saw a reflection in the glass.
I spun around, and my heart rose in my throat. "Frank?" I asked.
Frank Hardy turned his head at his name and stood looking at me, jaw agape. He had a heavy beard and was wearing blue jeans, a blue work shirt, and large moccasin-style boots. He wore his graying hair in a short ponytail, tied with a thin leather strap.
"Nancy?" he muttered incredulously, his face creasing with delight.
I stepped forward and kissed him lightly on the cheek, liking the feel of his coarse full beard on my lips. "What are you doing here?" I asked. I glanced around. "Are you undercover?"
He smiled, chagrined. "No. I left the service a few
years ago. I run a free clinic down the street." He held out an arm for me to take. "Let me show you. I'm headed there now."
I took his arm and he caught me up as we walked. "It was Vietnam that finally woke me up," he told me. "Do you remember Tom Swift's friend Bud Barclay?"
I nodded.
"He was killed on a sortie just over a year ago."
"I'm sorry."
"Bud's death really got to me. I left as soon as I could. Moved out here. Opened this free clinic. We offer basic medical treatment for the kids in the area. A lot of drug overdoses, that sort of thing. We're all the help a lot of these kids get."
We came to a four-story brick building on a corner. "This is it," Frank declared.
He showed me around the clinic and then took me to a nearby vegetarian restaurant for lunch. We talked for hours about our lives. Frank told me that Joe and Iola had four children. Joe had stopped drinking and had taken over their father's private detective agency when Fenton had died of a massive stroke—no great surprise, given all of Aunt Gertrude's high-fat cooking—while investigating the Mystery of the Masseuse. I told Frank about Ned Junior and Senior and my longing for adventure. Frank had never married. I asked him why.
"It just never felt right," he explained.
"What about sleuthing?" I asked. "Do you miss it?"
He was thoughtful. "It's not our world anymore, Nancy." He sighed. "It's a lot more complicated out there than when we were young. Mysteries have changed. Villains today are not so black and white. And the technology is changing all the time. I'm content to leave the sleuthing to the next generation. Have you heard about this kid, Encyclopedia Brown?"
"But we can be updated," I insisted. "We can be brought up to speed. I just know that we still have a place in this world as sleuths. Just think how much more we know now than when we were sixteen!"
He smiled sadly. "People don't remember," he declared heavily.
"They do!" I insisted. "I'm recognized all the time!"
Frank put his hand on mine. "It was good seeing you," he muttered gently. "Now I should be getting to work." He slid his chair back from the table and stood up.
I felt a catch in my throat. "Do you want to meet him?" I asked. "Ned Junior?"
Frank was silent, his face a veil of regrets. Then, slowly, he shook his head. "I don't think I'm supposed to," he murmured.
He turned and walked away. Through the restaurant window I watched him walk off, hunched, hands in his pockets, until he was out of sight.
When I arrived back at the old Victorian, the house was in an uproar. Ned Junior met me at the door, his face stricken. He was clutching a handwritten note. "It's Dad!" Ned Junior cried, his bearded face smeared with tears. "He's been kidnapped!"
I calmed Ned Junior down, and he and Foxy explained what had happened. Unbeknownst to me, Ned Senior had also planned a visit to San Francisco, for a national life insurance convention. Ned Junior was expecting him to arrive that morning by cab for a visit before proceeding to his downtown hotel. But when the cab arrived, Ned Senior was not in it. Instead, the cab driver brought a note to the door that he said a man in a hat and overcoat had instructed him to deliver. The note, handwritten on a white index card, read:
Send help, beware the turtle. Dad
Foxy had grilled the cab driver for more information, but, satisfied that he knew nothing and could not describe the man in the hat with any accuracy, she let him go on his way.
"This is extremely mysterious," I observed.
Foxy nodded vigorously.
We sat yogi-style on the floor of the living room and went over our options. "He probably checked into the hotel before he came here, right?" I looked at Ned Junior.
Ned Junior said, "Yes."
"Okay. So that's where we start. Who has a car?"
The hippies looked around at one another helplessly.
"No one?"
They all shrugged.
"Ned Junior?" I pleaded.
"I have a motorcycle with a sidecar," he offered.
"Okay." I sighed. "Foxy and I will take that, because we are the most experienced at sleuthing and I know how to handle a chopper. All the rest of you find a car and get down to the hotel as soon as you can."
"Should we call the cops?" asked Ned Junior.
"In my experience," I explained, "the police should not be called until the very last minute."
The hippies all nodded in agreement.
"Okay," I declared. "Let's go."
At the hotel, we had to spend several minutes in the ladies' room while I restyled my hair, which had been whipped up ferociously by the wind on the ride over. Foxy did not seem to mind the state of her sandy blond curls, though I encouraged her to wash the dirt off her face, which she did. Once my bottle-titian tresses were combed so smooth they shone, we marched to the front desk.
"I'm Mrs. Nickerson," I declared pleasantly. "I seem to have lost the key to my room. I believe it's under my husband's name, Ned Nickerson, the famous life insurance agent?"
The balding man behind the counter gave me only a momentary glance before handing me a key with the room number stamped on it: 405.
Foxy and I proceeded to the fourth floor and down the hall to Ned's room. I knocked softly on the door. No one answered. I put the key in the lock and opened the door.
"Jeepers!" Foxy exclaimed breathlessly.
The room had been ransacked!
Foxy and I cautiously examined the damage. The mattress had been pulled off the bed. All the dresser drawers were upended. Ned's suitcase lay open, and all of his neat slacks and jackets were strewn about the room. It broke my heart to see all his tidily pressed plaid slacks and wide ties thrown into disarray.
Foxy was already on her hands and knees on the carpet looking for tracks.
"See anything?" I asked, offering Foxy my magnifying glass.
"There's been a scuffle," Foxy reported. "I see men's tracks all over the place. There were either several of them with roughly the same shoe size, or just one intruder who was a real wildcat."
A note on the bedside table caught my attention. I picked it up. "Look at this!" I exclaimed. It was another handwritten note on an index card. It read:
Room #204. Hurry. Dad
"I think this is a clue," I told Foxy.
She cocked her freckled face. "Do you think the gang of men with the same shoe size kidnapped him and are holding him two floors down?"
"Maybe," I mused.
"We should go check," she suggested.
"Yes," I agreed.
The hotel's second floor hallway was deserted. Foxy and I approached room 204 stealthily and with great haste. I placed my ear against the door. Nothing. I tried the doorknob. The door was unlocked. I pushed it open, and Foxy and I entered the dark hotel room, despairing of what we would find. We had taken only a few steps when we heard a terrible groan. Foxy threw on the lights.
Ned was seated on the floor tied and gagged! What dastardly villain was at work? I rushed to his side, kneeled, and untied the gag, while Foxy began cutting away at the ropes that bound his ankles with her pocketknife. I had not seen Ned in months and could not help but feel that had I been there for him, this might not have happened.
"What happened?" I asked him urgently.
"Don't know," he mumbled. "I walked into my room and saw a ghostly hand!" He grinned at us in a silly sort of way, then tried to stand up but sank to the ground.
"Are you ill?" I cried.
"I've been drugged. Chloroform. Or something equally powerful. I fought as hard as I could, but I couldn't breathe. Then I went out like a light. Didn't know another thing until I heard your voice."
"Wait a minute," I asked slowly. "Didn't this happen in that book Carolyn wrote, The Ghost of Blackwood Halt?"
Ned looked sheepish. "I thought you didn't read those."
My eyes narrowed. "I've read a couple. Just to see what all the fuss was about." I turned to Foxy. "Can you excuse us for a minute?"
Foxy's eyebrows
shot up, but she did as I asked and walked out into the hallway.
"You faked this whole thing, didn't you?" I asked Ned evenly.
"What happened?" I asked him urgently.
Ned began to cry. "I saw you with Frank Hardy," he explained tearfully. "I was on my way to Ned Junior's in the cab and I saw you walking arm in arm with Frank. Seeing you with that Hardy boy made me realize how much I still loved you. I remembered how much you used to like to rescue me, and I thought that if I faked my kidnapping and you could rescue me again you'd realize how much you missed me. So I came back here, ransacked my room, disguised myself, and sent the cabbie with the note, and then I trussed myself up and waited for you to come." He sniffed. "I knew you would."
"What about the turtle?"
He grinned. "I just threw that in for a little color."
I put my hands on my hips and regarded Ned gravely. He had grown out his sideburns to a ridiculous degree. "You scared Ned Junior silly, you know. He's probably stealing a car right now so he can make it here to help find you."
"I'm sorry."
"And what about Foxy? You know that's Foxy Belden-Frayne out there in the hallway. Her mom's a pretty famous detective in Westchester County, New York."
"I'll apologize to her," Ned promised quietly.
"This was all for my benefit?"
He wiped a tear from his cheek with the back of his wrist and nodded.
Ned Nickerson. My Ned. My attractive, paunchy, balding, bumbling Ned. Even though I didn't feel that we should be married, I felt that we belonged together somehow. He was a good man. And he truly did love me.
"I can't be married to you," I told him. "It's not in my nature."
He nodded.
"But maybe we could try being special friends?"
His eyes lit up. "Do you mean it?"
"No pressures about marriage. No housework. No smothering."
"What about Frank?"
I thought about this. I loved Frank Hardy. I always would. But sometimes it was like we were from different universes, like our stories didn't entirely intersect. "I'm not meant to be with Frank," I declared finally. "I'm meant to be with you."
