The Battle of Bayport

by Franklin W. Dixon

“How can you not know?” Joe almost shouted. The suspense was driving us nuts.

  “When the police interviewed me after the reenactment, they said I had a motive because of what happened with my dad and that I could have loaded the gun for real if I wanted,” Mikey continued. “They even knew about the target shooting merit patches I got at camp when I was a kid, because Deputy Hixson was my counselor, and they said it would have been an easy shot for me. I told them I didn’t do it, because, you know, I didn’t. I mean, at least I don’t think I did it.”

  “Um, Mikey, isn’t whether you shot Don Sterling something you should be fairly certain about?” I asked what should have seemed like an obvious question.

  “Well, yeah, that’s what I thought too,” Mikey agreed, “but I got to thinking about it last night, and I don’t think I did it, but what if, like, I did, but by accident?”

  “But how do you accidentally load a musket with live ammunition without realizing it?” I asked. I was trying not to get frustrated, but I couldn’t tell if he was trying to confess or if he had just taken one too many hits to the helmet.

  “Did you load your musket with an actual musket ball?” Joe prodded.

  “I don’t think so,” Mikey said. “Not on purpose at least.”

  “You have to know if you loaded a musket ball, Mikey,” Joe said, trying to reason with him. “You can’t accidentally shoot somebody with an unloaded musket.”

  “What if there was something wrong with my gun, you know? Or maybe I did it wrong? I paid really close attention at the gun safety class, and I’ve gone over it in my head, like, a hundred times and I think I did everything right, but what if I didn’t?”

  “That’s really unlikely, Mikey,” I told him. “Like just about impossible unlikely. You have to actually load the ball down the barrel after you put in the powder and then ram it down with the ramrod. You would have remembered that.”

  “But I aimed right at him!” Mikey protested. “I aimed right at his heart, and that’s where they said he was shot. And when I pulled the trigger, he fell like I had really shot him. It all felt so real.”

  Mikey sniffled like he was holding back tears and wiped his nose on a big forearm. I had never heard a suspect try so hard to convince us he was guilty. I still couldn’t tell if he was confessing to actually having done something wrong or if this was just a case of misplaced guilt. You’d be surprised how many suspects love to talk, even if it means accidentally incriminating themselves while trying to deny a crime. Mikey, on the other hand, looked miserable, and it sounded like he actually did want to incriminate himself, he just wasn’t doing a very good job of it.

  “There were a lot of people firing muskets all at the same time, Mikey,” I reassured him. I was actually feeling bad for the big guy. “I’m pretty sure you weren’t the only one aiming at the Don. Mr. Lakin as much as told everyone to. It couldn’t have been you unless your musket was loaded.”

  “But what if I loaded it subcontinentally, you know, and didn’t even realize it?”

  Joe looked baffled as he tried to figure out what Mikey had just said. I jumped in and did my best to translate.

  “You mean what if you did it subconsciously?” I asked. It was a good thing Mikey was good at football, because I don’t think he was going to be winning any academic scholarships anytime soon.

  “Yeah, that!” Mikey said. “I know it sounds crazy, but what if because I hated him so much I subconsciously blacked out for a minute and put a real bullet in the gun? I don’t remember anything like that, but then I wouldn’t, right? Like this one time I sleepwalked, and Jen found me in the kitchen all covered in crumbs because I’d eaten, like, everything in the pantry, even the uncooked spaghetti and sardines, and I hate sardines, and then when I woke up I didn’t remember doing it at all. What if it was like that, but just a lot worse?”

  Mikey was right—his theory sounded crazy. Crazy enough that the police would probably slap cuffs on him if they heard it.

  Defense lawyers sometimes try to claim their clients blacked out and had temporary amnesia when they committed a crime so they can plea temporary insanity. Usually, though, it’s just a desperate last-ditch attempt to justify the actions of a guilty criminal who doesn’t have a legitimate defense. It almost never works. If Mikey went to the police with his theory, they’d peg him as a guilt-ridden killer trying to clear his conscience without actually confessing to what he’d done. And they might be right. But even if it was just a case of overactive imagination, it would still shoot him straight to the top of Chief Olaf’s suspect list.

  “Jen told me not to say anything to anyone. She didn’t even want to know.” Mikey sounded ashamed. “Like maybe she thought I really could have done it or something. She told me to keep it to myself or people would think I did it and I’d lose my shot at a scholarship and maybe end up in jail and broke like Dad. I don’t want to let Jen and my folks down, but I can’t stop thinking about it. I mean, even if I didn’t do it, I still feel like it’s my fault for wanting him dead that way. And what if I really did shoot him? Not knowing, it’s eating me up. Mr. Sterling wasn’t a good person, but he didn’t deserve to die. I don’t know if I could live with myself if I really killed someone, even if it was the Don.”

  Mikey’s phone buzzed, and he looked down at the screen with a defeated expression.

  “That’s Jen,” he sighed. “I have to go. If you guys find out anything that—well, you know, even if it’s bad, I want to know. And please don’t tell Jen I talked to you guys, okay? Thanks.”

  Mikey lumbered off, hanging his head like he’d just missed the tackle that lost his team the championship. I didn’t think the part about us not telling Jen would be a problem, at least. I didn’t think she had any intention of talking to us. As for the rest of it, well, from the baffled look on Joe’s face, I could tell we both felt about the same way. The Griffin siblings had done a good job of turning our morning inside out and then upside down.

  We were going to have a lot to discuss, but we were going to have to discuss it later. There was someone else at the top of our list we had to talk to first. The stepson of Mikey’s maybe-victim had just walked around the corner.

  PRECIOUS METALS

  12

  JOE

  I DIDN’T KNOW WHAT TO make of Mikey’s strange sorta-kinda-not-really-maybe confession. If there was anything to his half-baked theories about the Don’s murder, it was going to complicate things even more. Like this case wasn’t tough enough already!

  At least the idea that Jen might have flipped out on us because she was just trying to protect her brother made me feel a little better about the scene in the cafeteria (looking after a brother was one thing us Hardy boys could definitely relate to). I just wasn’t so sure she would feel the same way about me in reverse, though, especially after she warned us away from Mikey and we went ahead and talked to him anyway. I didn’t think it would matter to her that he came to us. Thoughts about Jen and Mikey Griffin would have to wait for now, though.

  Don Sterling’s stepson Calvin was heading up the outside steps to the second-floor hallway.

  Calvin was our only inside source into the Don’s personal life, and talking to him was a top priority. I’d had a few classes with him, and he wasn’t a bad guy. The “Silver Son” got a lot of grief from the other kids because of who his stepdad was, but it wasn’t his fault his mom had married Bayport’s version of Scrooge McDuck.

  I was surprised he was even at school after what had happened to his stepdad the day before. And from his reaction when he saw us running up to him, he didn’t seem that broken up about it.

  “Hey, guys, what’s up?” he asked nonchalantly.

  “We’re really sorry about your stepdad, Calvin,” Frank said, and I nodded solemnly.

  “Oh, yeah, thanks. Sucks, huh? I mean, I wasn’t all that close to Don, but my mom is pretty upset about it. I heard you guys were trying to find out who did it.”

  So much for keeping a low profile.

>   “If it’s cool, we were hoping you could tell us anything you think might help us figure out why someone would want to harm your stepdad,” I said. “It could really make a big difference.”

  “Sure. I don’t know how much I can help, but I’m happy to do whatever I can. It would make my mom feel a lot better if you can catch the killer,” Calvin said. “Oh, and the police already talked to me and my mom. Before you get any ideas she might have had something to do with it, she doesn’t need Don’s money. Not that there’s going to be much left to inherit anyway.”

  Frank and I did a Hardy double take on that one. Everybody knew Don Sterling was one of the wealthiest people in town. Calvin saw our surprise.

  “If someone killed him for the money, then they’re in for a real shock. His high-roller thing was mostly just an act,” Calvin said.

  “That can’t be right. He was the museum’s biggest benefactor,” Frank said in disbelief.

  “Nah, that’s just what Don wanted everyone to think. Most of it was my mom’s money—she just let Don take credit for it. A lot of it came from the city, too. And he only donated the ship to the historical society in the first place because he was going to lose the property he found it on and figured it would be good for his image after the whole factory fiasco. He about threw a fit when Mr. Lakin found all those crates full of expensive artifacts. He was even going to get his lawyers to try to take everything back. I overheard him telling my mom about it. I guess he decided not to, but if he’d known anything on that ship would end up being worth so much, he never would have let it out of his sight to begin with.”

  “I guess that explains all the arguing with Mr. Lakin over what he could sell at auction,” Frank said.

  “Ha!” Calvin laughed. “Don was always arguing with everyone over money lately. He was in way over his head with bad investments and ended up having to sell his stake in the factory for, like, pennies on the dollar just to pay off some of Sterling Industries’ debts. My mom’s pretty much been supporting him for a while now.”

  POP. That was the sound of Calvin bursting the bubble on what pretty much everybody thought they knew about Don Sterling. A lot of people in Bayport might take satisfaction in learning that the Don’s business was going belly-up, but for Frank and me, Don Sterling being broke just raised a whole new slew of questions we didn’t have answers to. To figure out who else might have benefited from the Don’s death, we were going to have to find out more about his other business dealings. I was about to hit Calvin with some follow-up questions when Frank jumped in.

  “Where did you get that?” he asked, pointing to the gold key chain in Calvin’s hand.

  On closer inspection, I could tell why Frank was so interested in it. The large gold coin dangling from the key ring looked a lot like the one in the museum display about the lost British treasure.

  “What, this?” Calvin held up the key chain. “I made it in shop. Pretty sweet, huh?”

  “Supersweet,” Frank said. “Where did you get the coin?”

  “Found it in the coin tray at home. It must have gotten mixed in with Don’s or my mom’s change, like when you get one of those Canadian quarters by accident. I didn’t think they’d miss it, so I took it to shop to use the drill press and put a nice key ring on it.” Calvin beamed over his new accessory.

  “Do you mind if I see it?” Frank asked, and Calvin handed over the key chain.

  I leaned over Frank’s shoulder as he examined it. The coin was rough edged and not quite perfectly round. It had a picture of an old-timey British lady on one side and a crowned lion and a unicorn on the other side.

  “Is it okay if I take a picture?” Frank asked.

  “Sure.” Calvin shrugged. Frank snapped a couple of quick pics and handed back the key chain.

  “I’ve got to get to class, but if there’s anything else I can do to help, just let me know.” Calvin walked off down the hall, the gold coin dangling from his hand.

  I knew the look on Frank’s face. It was that nerd-fueled rush of excitement he gets when we make an especially geeky breakthrough on a case.

  “You don’t think that’s just some random coin that got mixed in with the Don’s change, do you?” I asked.

  “It might have accidentally gotten mixed up with the Don’s change, but I don’t think it was random,” Frank answered.

  “You think it’s strange the Don had a copy of the replica coin from the exhibit at the museum about the lost British treasure?” I asked, trying to figure out why it had Frank so amped up.

  “I don’t think that was a replica,” he said. “The coin in the display is cheap gold-plated tin; I held it before they put it behind glass. Calvin’s coin was twice as heavy and looked gold all the way through where he drilled the hole. He might not realize it, but I’m pretty sure the coin dangling from his key chain is pure gold.”

  “No way,” I said, starting to share some of Frank’s excitement. “How would the Don have gotten ahold of a real coin from the treasure?”

  “I don’t know, but I think that coin is the real deal, Joe,” Frank said reverently.

  “How do we find out for sure?” I asked.

  We both thought about it for a second. The answer came to us at the same time. “Murph!”

  Murph “the Collector” Murphy was probably the only dude at Bayport High who knew more obscure facts about random stuff than Frank did. Murph got the nickname “the Collector” because that’s what he does—collect stuff. All kinds of stuff. If it can be collected, there’s a good chance he either collects it or knows all about it. Stamps, vintage Japanese toy robots, baseball cards, comic books, butterflies, apothecary jars (yeah, I don’t know what they are either), and, of course, coins. Murph was our man.

  I sometimes joke with Frank about being a nerd. Well, Murph took nerdism to another level. He turned it into a fashion statement. When we caught up to him outside the library, he was sporting a perfectly tied bow tie, an argyle sweater-vest, and thick old-school black-framed glasses. But this wasn’t your typical frumpy classic nerd look. It was all perfectly coordinated, expensive GQ fashion kind of stuff. The look was geek chic hipster, and Murph had the nerdtastic confidence to pull it off, too. He didn’t care if people thought he was different, and you had to admire him for it.

  Frank showed Murph the pictures. If he had been a cartoon character, his eyes would have turned into big gold coins and popped right out of their sockets, that’s how wide they got when he saw Calvin’s key chain.

  “Is that what I think it is?” he asked in awe.

  “We were hoping you could tell us,” Frank said.

  “If it’s real, it’s one of the Queen Charlotte gold pieces from the King’s Pride Treasure,” Murph affirmed, and Frank glowed.

  “They’re like the Holy Grail for a lot of coin collectors,” Murph said, launching into a lecture, with Frank and me as his eager pupils. “One or two have popped up at auction in England, but they’re, like, super rare. No one has ever found one in America before, not that anyone knows about anyway, and people have been hunting for them for, like, two hundred and fifty years. King George had them minted in a single run in 1775 for the sole purpose of helping fund the war in America, but they vanished before ever making it into circulation in the colonies. There are rumors that the British ship carrying them was intercepted by the Continental Navy off the coast not far from Bayport, but no one knows for sure because none of the coins ever turned up. The shipment was called the King’s Pride because they’re the only gold currency Old George ever let the Royal Mint press with Queen Charlotte’s image while she was alive. And they’d be worth a king’s fortune to whoever found them now.”

  Murph flipped between the pictures of the front and back of the coin.

  “This sure looks real enough from the pictures. The detail on the unicorn is unique to Queen Charlotte’s family seal. I’d have to see it for myself to know for certain if this one is just a good fake or not. If it’s real?” Murph whistled. “It’s worth a
whole lot more than its weight in gold, I can tell you that. Usually coin valuation depends on condition—and I’d like to give a piece of my mind to whoever went and desecrated it with a drill, by the way—but even with that big old hole in it, that puppy all by itself could be worth more than a lot of people make in a year.”

  If Murph was right, we’d stumbled on a second mystery. Frank looked like he’d won the lottery. This wasn’t just a murder investigation anymore. It had turned into a treasure hunt.

  THE FUGITIVE

  13

  FRANK

  MURPH WANDERED OFF, MUTTERING to himself in a daze, like he’d just seen the Loch Ness Monster strolling the halls of Bayport High. I could relate. That excited-kid-like feeling I got while looking at the fake coin in the museum display? Multiply that times a million. If the coin on Calvin’s key chain was what Murph and I thought it was, then the Hardy boys were about to add a new specialty to our investigative repertoire: treasure hunters.

  I didn’t want to get too far ahead of myself—the coin could still be a fake—but right now, there was a good chance Calvin was walking around with a small fortune’s worth of the King’s Pride Treasure in his pocket, thinking it was just a cool trinket that got mixed up with his stepdad’s change. And if he was, that meant Mr. Sterling may have stumbled on some serious gold before he checked out.

  “If the Don discovered even a small part of the treasure, it could have solved a lot of his money troubles,” Joe observed.

  “At least it would have if he hadn’t been killed first,” I pointed out.

  “Do you think he realized the significance of what he had?” Joe asked.

  “If it got thrown in with his change, then either he didn’t know what it was or he’d found enough of the coins that he could afford to be careless with this one,” I said, thrilled by the idea that the coin might be the tip of a golden iceberg.

  “Maybe more importantly, did anyone else realize the significance of what he found?” Joe asked, and my detective senses started tingling. I could feel the beginnings of a theory brewing.