“I’m going to catch a quick shower first,” Frank said as they entered their corner room.
Putting on his bathrobe, Frank headed down the hall past the closed doors of the sleeping staffers to the common shower room.
After washing off the dirt and grime of the day, Frank shut off the shower. In that quiet moment, he heard something in the adjoining sink room. “Joe?” he called.
Listening for a response, Frank heard only a low growl. He slipped on his robe. Suddenly the lights went out, and the shower room became pitch-black. Frank knew there was nothing he could find in there to use as a weapon. Flattening himself against the wall, Frank slipped around the corner and into the sink room. The door to the hallway was propped open, and a large figure stood motionless in the opening. With a shout, Frank tackled the man into the hallway.
Lights were turned on at the sound of the commotion, and Frank saw the assailant he had tackled—Chet!
“You?” both boys said, surprised.
“Frank, Chet, what’s going on,” Joe called, hurrying down the hall to them.
“I heard a growl,” Frank said.
“So did I,” Chet agreed. “When I stepped into the hall, it was pitch-black.”
“Someone shut off the shower room lights,” Frank went on. “I thought Chet was the someone.”
Joe stepped into the sink room and flipped on the lights. The cabinets below two of the sinks were open and some of the contents had been pulled out. “Anyone know what we store under these sinks?” Joe asked.
“Yeah,” said Phil Dietz, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Toilet paper, paper towels, and soap.”
Searching all the cabinets, Frank and Joe found plenty of toilet paper and paper towels, but every bar of soap was gone. The Hardys and the other Sweatbox staff slept with the outer doors locked for the first time all summer.
• • •
At five-thirty the Hardys’ alarm clock went off. By six, they were in the main lobby of the inn, sweeping floors, dusting tables, and putting all the chairs and rockers back into their proper places.
Joe was dragging a rocker from the fireplace room out onto the grand porch overlooking the lake when he spotted Mrs. Gregory, who was drinking coffee and reading the newspaper. “Good morning, Mrs. Gregory,” Joe said, grabbing his push broom.
“Good morning, Joe. Any news about last night’s unpleasantness?”
“We didn’t find the culprit, if that’s what you mean,” Joe replied.
“Oh, I don’t even know why I’m reading this,” Mrs. Gregory said, folding her newspaper. “I come here to get away from the world.”
“What’s happening outside Konawa Valley?” Joe asked, making conversation.
“Since the cease-fire in Kormia an international peacekeeping force has been in the capital keeping order,” Mrs. Gregory told Joe. “After the treaty was signed last week, ending the civil war, all the international troops were sent home.”
“That sounds like good news,” Joe said.
“It would be, except that the national museum has been looted,” Mrs. Gregory explained, “and the Kormian officials claim that someone on the peackeeping force is responsible.”
“Wow, that’s bad,” Joe said.
Mrs. Gregory rose from her rocking chair. “Well, I’d better wash the newsprint off my hands before breakfast.”
“Oh,” Joe said, struck by a thought. “Did you find anything missing from your bathroom cabinet?”
“Nothing important,” Mrs. Gregory replied, heading inside.
“Anything unimportant?” Joe asked.
Mrs. Gregory paused in the doorway. “Yes—oddly enough, we’re missing all our soap.”
“Joe!” Sandy called from inside the main lobby. “Front and center!”
Joe found Sandy with Frank, talking to the owner of the Konawa Lake Inn, the tall, heavyset Jim Craven.
“Sandy and Frank were telling me about last night,” Craven said, nervously patting the top of his white-haired crew cut. “Now, the last thing I want are rumors about break-ins and mysterious wolf-dog creatures.”
“Mrs. Gregory said her soap was stolen, too,” Joe told Craven.
“All the more reason to keep tight lips,” Craven ordered. “I think I know who’s behind this.”
“Who?” said Frank.
“One of those yo-yos down in the Sweatbox,” Craven replied. “It smells dead-on like a staff prank.”
“A prank? Breaking into a guest cottage?” Joe asked.
“Joe, I’ve seen these things get out of hand,” Craven explained.
“Say, Craven!” Tringle called from across the lobby.
“What now?” Craven said quietly under his breath.
“I told you yesterday about the wasps’ nest under the north eaves,” Tringle went on. “If I get stung, you’ll have a lawsuit on your hands.”
“Mr. Tringle, I’ll have Sandy take care of it right away,” Craven said with a smile. After Tringle walked out on the porch, Craven said, “Larry Tringle has been coming here fifteen years, and all he does is complain.”
“I’ll have the boys knock it down,” Sandy assured Craven, who bustled off to talk with Jen Haskell, Katie’s older sister, who worked behind the registration desk.
Sandy brought the boys to the side of the inn and pointed to a large, roughly circular nest under the eaves of the inn. “There she blows.”
“That’s one of the biggest wasps’ nests I’ve ever seen,” Joe said, watching dozens of wasps darting around the nest.
“Oh, that’s only a baby.” Sandy grinned. “Wait till you tackle a white-faced hornets’ nest.”
“How do we knock it down?” Frank asked.
“With our patented de-nester,” Sandy replied, handing him a cane fishing pole. “You should knock it down only at night and kill the wasps then, when they’re all in the nest, but since Tringle is so upset, go to it now. See you at breakfast.”
The Hardys watched as Sandy walked off, smiling to himself. Frank reached up with the cane pole, which was just barely long enough to reach the nest. “Okay, Joe, on the count of three I knock it down, and we run. One, two, three!” Frank swung the pole and then ran. Looking back, he saw Joe still standing there. “Joe, what are you doing?”
“You missed it,” Joe replied calmly. “Let me take a whack.”
Joe was careful to make sure the end of the pole was touching the nest. He then nodded to Frank and whipped the pole, waiting till he saw the nest start to fall before racing off and jumping behind a low hedge with his brother. “And that’s how it’s done,” Joe said, peeking over the hedge.
As Joe rose up to look, Frank saw ten wasps crawling on the back of Joe’s shirt.
3 The Wrong Place
* * *
“Don’t move a muscle, Joe,” Frank said. Joe froze while Frank slowly lifted the bottom of Joe’s T-shirt away from his body.
“What next?” Joe asked.
Frank knew if he tried swatting the insects away, they would both get stung. “Let’s just stay still awhile, Joe,” Frank instructed.
A minute passed, then two. Then the first wasp flew away, followed quickly by a second and a third. Finally the last wasp took off.
“Into the inn!” Frank shouted, and the two boys rushed inside, closing the door behind them. “Wow, Joe—I can’t believe you didn’t get stung,” Frank said.
“I did get stung,” Joe said, lifting his shirt and showing Frank the white bump swelling on his shoulder blade. “I just didn’t move.”
Frank got a first-aid kit from Jen Haskell at the front desk. “This should take out some of the sting,” Frank said, rubbing ointment on Joe’s back. The public address system crackled to life and played canned bugle music, calling the guests to the first meal of the day.
“All this,” Joe said, pulling his T-shirt down, “and we haven’t even had breakfast yet.”
After chowing down on eggs, grits, and bacon, the Hardys left the staff dining room. They passed through t
he kitchen to say hi to Chet before heading off on the morning’s “garbage run.”
Chet stood behind a counter, rapidly unloading steaming racks of clean dishes from a conveyor belt that carried them through the industrial dishwasher. “Ow, ow, ow,” Chet yelped, each time he grabbed a plate and stacked it on the shelf.
“Hey, this thing reminds me of the automatic car wash back in Bayport,” Joe said. “You’re a one-man dish-washing army, Chet!”
“Ha, ha,” Chet replied, followed by “Ow, ow, ow.”
“Are those really that hot? Ow!” Joe cried out, as he touched one of the dishes.
“The kitchen vets say I won’t even feel it once I develop calluses on my hands,” Chet said proudly.
“Well, that’s something to look forward to,” Joe joked.
Chet yawned wide, and Frank noticed dark circles under his eyes. “I never fell back asleep after that thing broke into the Sweatbox,” Chet said through a second yawn.
“Mr. Craven thinks it’s one of the guys pulling a prank,” Frank said.
“That was an animal we heard and saw last night, Frank,” Chet said.
“I think you’re right, Chet,” Frank said. “I just don’t know how to make Mr. Craven believe it.”
“Maybe after there are a few more break-ins,” Joe said, half kidding.
A thought struck Frank. “How do we know there haven’t been?”
“What do you mean?” Joe asked.
“The thief and his dog, or wolf, came prowling into Mrs. Gregory’s place during the evening, when there are always major activities planned at Konawa. Most people are away from their cottages,” Frank explained. “If the thief has been stealing only soap, he may have already slipped in and out of other cottages, unnoticed.”
“Interesting idea,” Joe said, “but what can we do with it?”
“If we could find out that soap is missing from other cottages,” Frank replied, “Craven might take the matter more seriously.”
“Julia Tilford is on the housekeeping crew,” Joe recalled. “She and Chet are friends.”
“Maybe you could offer to help her clean the cottages this morning,” Frank suggested, “and snoop around in the bathroom cabinets.”
“I was planning to take a nap before lunch duty,” Chet said, rubbing his chin, “but if it’ll help solve this wolf mystery, okay.”
“Thanks, Chet,” Joe said, patting his friend on the back.
“I have only one question,” Chet said. “Why soap?”
“Chet,” Frank replied, “when we can answer that, I think we’ll have the answer to this whole weird thing.”
“Hey, Joe,” Katie Haskell called as she stepped into the kitchen to grab a box of orange juice. “My sister’s looking for one of you guys. A new guest just checked in.”
“You want me to take this one?” Frank asked his brother.
“He looks like a big tipper,” Katie added before exiting through the swinging door.
“No, I’ll take this one,” Joe said, smiling.
• • •
Joe hurried into the main lobby, where a man with black hair and sunglasses, wearing a gray suit, was waiting.
“Joe!” Jen Haskell called, relieved. “Could you take Mr. Alvaro’s luggage to his room?”
“Sure!” Joe replied. “How are you doing, Mr. Alvaro?”
Alvaro said nothing, but just turned and motioned for Joe to follow. Opening the trunk of his luxury car with a remote control, Alvaro pointed to two large suitcases.
“Sorry if you had to wait. We’re always on front desk duty Saturdays when most guests arrive and depart,” Joe explained as he grabbed the two suitcases and placed them on a rolling luggage rack. Joe noticed a rental agreement from a rent-a-car company in the trunk and LGA airport tags on his luggage. “Are you on vacation?” he asked, smiling.
“Right,” Alvaro replied.
“Where are you from?” Joe asked, reaching for the last bag, a maroon briefcase.
“I’ll take that,” Alvaro said, snatching the briefcase away from Joe.
Joe rolled the luggage cart through the lobby, down the outer corridor running beside the main guest dining hall, and into the wing of guest rooms.
“I’m supposed to be on the third floor,” Alvaro said, checking his room key.
“Yes, sir,” Joe replied. “Because the inn is on a hillside, you enter on the third floor and have to take an elevator down to the first two floors. Pretty strange, huh?”
Alvaro unlocked his door without responding. Joe set the two suitcases inside. “Which room is Milo Flatts in?” Alvaro asked.
“I believe I took his luggage to the corner room at the end of the hall,” Joe replied.
“The corner room?” Alvaro repeated. “Fine.”
With that, Alvaro closed the door, leaving Joe in the corridor with no thank-you and no tip. This was not the typical Konawa guest, someone in a happy vacation mood. Alvaro was cold and businesslike. And why is he looking for Milo Flatts? Joe asked himself.
• • •
An old dump truck pulled into the gravel parking lot beside the inn.
“Hop on,” Sandy called to the Hardys, who stepped up on the back bumper and grabbed the top of the tailgate.
“Clear!” Frank shouted, giving Sandy the signal it was safe to pull away. The ancient truck pulled out of the parking lot and onto the two-lane private road that ran through Konawa. After turning off the main road, the truck began winding its way up the dirt road that ran behind the cottages.
As the truck stopped behind the first two cottages, Joe hopped off, grabbed the garbage cans set out behind each, and handed them to Frank, who dumped their contents into the bed of the truck and then passed the empty cans back to Joe. Joe hopped back on the bumper, Frank yelled “Clear,” and Sandy drove to the next stop.
Thirty-nine cottages later, they headed up Lake Konawa Road. After turning off onto a gravel road, the truck reached a massive pit.
Frank and Joe unlatched and lowered the tailgate, hopped off, and stood to each side of the truck. Sandy starting backing the truck up to the edge of the pit.
“Keep coming!” Frank yelled over the sound of the engine. “Back, back, and stop!” The truck tires stopped at the very edge of the pit, leaving the rear end hanging over the pit. Sandy pulled the lever, and the hydraulic system tilted the truck bed up, dumping the mass of garbage into the pit.
Sandy, Joe, and Frank climbed down the dirt embankment and set the trash on fire, then scaled the embankment and watched from a safe distance as the small fires joined and became one giant bonfire.
“We can’t even burn leaves in our yard back in Bayport,” Joe remarked.
“We’re twenty-five miles outside the city limits of Konawaville and forty miles from the nearest dump,” Sandy explained. “So we have a special permit to burn our garbage.”
An empty aerosol can sizzled and exploded.
“Somebody’s hair spray.” Sandy grinned. Joe watched, while glass bottles shattered from the intense heat. Thirty minutes later the fire had burned out, and it was safe to leave.
Frank and Joe were surprised when Sandy slowed and turned right off Lake Konawa Road onto a side road.
“Wonder what this is about?” Joe asked. Frank shrugged. Sandy turned down a long dirt driveway, and Frank spotted the name Jons on the mailbox and the number 100. Several No Trespassing signs were hung on the barbed-wire fence surrounding the property.
Sandy stopped the truck in front of a cabin with a rusted tin roof. Frank noticed that the paint on the cabin was peeling and that the yard didn’t look as if it had been mowed in months. An old brown pickup truck was parked beside the cabin.
“Here, Joe,” Sandy said, pulling a parcel off the front seat and handing it to him.
“What’s this?” Joe asked.
“We have a new postman,” Sandy explained. “He delivered this to the resort by mistake.”
Joe read the address on the package. “One hundred Konawa Lake Road.
Isn’t that our mailing address?”
“No, the resort is one hundred Lake Konawa Road,” Sandy replied. “That little cabin is one hundred Konawa Lake Road. Craven wanted to be neighborly and asked us to deliver this.”
Joe took the parcel to the cabin and stepped up to the front door. Through the screen, Joe could see a suitcase and two large pet carriers with airport luggage tags on each. The tags read ASH, the code for the Asheville, North Carolina, airport that he and Frank had flown into. Also written on the tags were Flt. 414 and IEV. IEV was a code Joe had never seen before.
Joe started to knock, then noticed a small sign taped beside the door. The sign had detached at the top and folded over. Joe lifted it up and read it: “Beware of Dog.” Paws scraped across the wooden floor and a huge black Doberman pinscher leaped at Joe from inside the cabin. Joe threw his weight against the screen door just as the dog crashed against it, nearly knocking Joe off his feet.
Before Joe regained his balance, the Doberman had pried the door open with its snout. Holding the door with one hand, Joe reached for a heavy rain barrel and dragged it beside him. Shoving the Doberman’s snout back inside with his foot, Joe set the barrel in front of the screen door, blocking it. The Doberman barked viciously.
Joe closed his eyes and leaned against the barrel, trying to catch his breath. When he opened his eyes, a man in camouflage fatigues was standing ten feet away, holding a rifle. “You poked your nose in the wrong hole, boy,” the man said, leveling the rifle at Joe.
4 A Soldier of Fortune
* * *
“Mr. Jons!” Sandy yelled, running up from the truck with Frank.
Seeing Sandy, Jons lowered his rifle. “Shut up!” he yelled to the Doberman, which finally stopped barking and retreated into the back of the cabin.
Frank helped Joe to his feet. “Are you all right?” he asked. Joe nodded.
“Sorry, Mr. Jons. We were delivering a package,” Sandy explained. Joe picked the parcel up off the ground, brushing the dirt off it.
Jons snatched it away from him. “What are you doing with this?”
The Hunt for Four Brothers Page 2
