The Chase for the Mystery Twister

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Frank gave Lucas a brief rundown of the happenings at the Kanner farm. “So there are a lot of questions that need answering.”

  “Well, the deputy was right,” Lucas explained. “Kanner was in here tonight, talking to the head of the local bank.”

  “What about?” Frank asked.

  “Selling his property,” Lucas replied. “Kanner was so upset about losing his house, he planned to pack up and leave Twister Alley altogether.”

  “And the bank’s going to buy the property?” Frank asked.

  “Kanner was willing to sell it cheap,” Lucas told him as he pulled the basket out of the deep fryer and dumped Frank’s fries onto a plate. “If I overheard correctly, he’s coming into the bank tomorrow morning to sign over the deed and get his money.”

  “Sounds like he’s in a hurry to collect and leave,” Frank muttered, half to himself. “Did you see where Mr. Kanner went when he left?”

  “Right across the street to the Sandman Motel,” Lucas told him. “You want anything else, Frank?” Lucas asked as he walked toward the front door with his keys. “I’m closing up.”

  Frank shook his head and looked up as Diana returned from the back room. “I’m sorry, Frank,” she said in a gentler tone. “I don’t know why I got so upset.”

  “Probably because I got too nosy,” Frank replied. They both smiled.

  “I’ve locked up the front,” Lucas said. “Hope you don’t mind leaving by the back way.”

  “Not at all,” Frank said as he followed Diana and her uncle into the back room. Diana was turning off the lights, when Frank noticed a window looking out onto the alley behind Toby Gill’s office.

  “Can I be nosy just a little bit more?” Frank asked. “Toby Gill wasn’t in his office this morning—”

  “Yeah, I saw him leave,” Lucas offered. Frank was struck speechless by the sudden answer. “About nine-thirty Toby loaded three boxes of stuff into the trunk of his car and took off.”

  “Wow!” Frank exclaimed. “Then Henry Low River had nothing to do with his disappearance.”

  “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that,” Lucas said, frowning. “Henry was parked down the alley and started to follow him.”

  “You’re certain it was Mr. Low River?” Frank asked.

  “I had a clear view of his face,” Lucas replied. “He rolled down his window to toss something out.”

  “What did he toss out, Uncle Oscar?” Diana asked, getting pulled into the story.

  “Some little green box,” Lucas replied. “It should still be there.”

  “Would you mind showing me where he threw it?” Frank asked.

  Lucas took Frank to the spot. Sure enough, there was a small green box in the gutter.

  “Uh-oh,” Frank said as he picked it up.

  “Why ‘uh-oh’?” Diana asked. “What is it, Frank?”

  Frank looked up at her and her uncle. “It’s an empty box of thirty-eight-caliber cartridges.”

  7 A Hidden Fugitive

  * * *

  Joe and Phil were already in Tahlequah before they realized that they had a problem: They didn’t know where they were going. Joe spotted a brightly lit building coming up on the right.

  “Stop at this convenience store,” Joe instructed. Phil pulled over, and Joe got out and walked into the store. He immediately felt that all eyes were on him. The clerk and all the customers were Native American.

  “Hi! How ya doing?” Joe said cheerfully. “Do any of you know where a wood sculptor named Henry Low River lives?”

  After a pause, the clerk replied. “No. Sorry.” The others just continued staring at Joe. He had never felt more like an outsider.

  “Thank you anyway,” Joe said with a smile, then turned and left. He passed a young Native American boy outside who was sitting on his bicycle and munching on a candy bar. Joe was about to get back into the pickup when he changed his mind and walked back.

  “Excuse me—could I ask you something?” he asked the boy.

  “Sure. What’s up?” the boy replied without hesitation.

  “I’m looking for a Mr. Low River. He’s a sculptor,” Joe told him.

  “I know him,” the boy said. “Go down five blocks to Red Rock and take a left.”

  “What’s the address?” Joe asked.

  “I don’t know, but you can’t miss it,” the boy replied, grinning.

  • • •

  When Phil came to a stop in front of Henry Low River’s house on Red Rock Road, Joe understood why the young boy had been grinning. The front yard was filled with animals in every size, shape, and species imaginable, all carved in wood.

  “There’s the sheriff’s car,” Phil said, nodding to the squad car parked in the street.

  “And that’s the green station wagon we saw this morning,” Joe added, pointing to an open garage.

  Joe noticed the faint smell of hickory smoke in the air. As he and Phil walked past an eight-foot-high grizzly bear and a life-size moose, metal chimes hanging on the eaves of the house clanged softly in the breeze.

  The place looked dark inside, but Joe knocked anyway. “No answer,” he said after a moment.

  “I guess we should leave, then.” Phil rubbed his arms as if he were cold, even though it was warm out. Joe could tell his friend was nervous.

  “I would hate to have to go in uninvited,” Joe said, eyes scanning the area for a possible way inside.

  “Me, too. It’s called breaking and entering, Joe,” Phil said.

  Joe tried the front door. The knob turned. “It’s unlocked,” he whispered.

  “Great. The sheriff might reduce the charge to trespassing, then,” Phil said.

  Joe knew Phil was right. “Good call, Phil. There’s no reason for us to break the law.”

  “Why don’t we ask the neighbors?” Phil suggested. “Maybe they know where Mr. Low River is.”

  Phil grabbed a flashlight from the truck, and they walked through Low River’s side yard. Joe spotted Snowdon’s pickup truck parked behind the neighboring house. “Check it out, Phil,” Joe said quietly to his friend.

  Phil clicked off his flashlight and pulled Joe down with him to a squatting position. They watched from the cover of the tall grass as a figure walked out of a wooded area behind the homes on Red Rock Road. As the man opened the door to the pickup, the interior light illuminated his face. It was Snowdon.

  “Whew!” Phil said as he flipped on the flashlight again.

  “Snowdon,” Joe called.

  Snowdon jerked his head around. “Joe? What are you doing here?”

  Joe saw Snowdon quickly toss a crumpled bag on the front seat and close the door. “The sheriff hasn’t been able to reach your grandfather on the phone all day,” Joe said, stretching the truth just a bit. “We thought we might be able to help find him.”

  “Thanks, Joe. I’m concerned myself,” Snowdon said, looking down at his feet. “I’ve asked all over for him. No one seems to know anything.”

  Joe thought Snowdon seemed nervous. “We were afraid you would be too overwhelmed with your other problems to get out here.”

  “Oh, yeah, well, a couple of my neighbors are organizing a barnraising for tomorrow,” Snowdon said. “The whole community’s going to pitch in to rebuild our barn in one day.”

  “It doesn’t look like there’ll be any tornadoes to chase,” Phil said, “so you can count us in, too.”

  “Good,” Snowdon replied. He shifted on his feet. “Well, it’s late. We’d better all get home and get some sleep.”

  “Are you okay, Snowdon?” Joe asked.

  “Sure!” Snowdon replied, perking up and clapping Joe on the back. When he did, Joe got a whiff of the young farmer’s shirt. It had the strong scent of hickory smoke on it.

  “Phil, tell Snowdon about the mystery twister,” Joe suggested. While Phil was talking, Joe slipped around to the other side of the pickup, reached through the passenger window, and grabbed the crumpled bag off the seat. As he did, Snowdon opened the door on the d
river’s side.

  “What are you doing, Joe?” Snowdon asked.

  “Just checking out your tires,” Joe replied. “They look good as new.”

  “They are new,” Snowdon said, looking a bit confused.

  “Well, then, that’s a good thing,” Joe said.

  Snowdon smiled. “We’ll see you in the morning.”

  After Snowdon pulled away, Phil began heading for the Blue Bomber. “Wait a second, Phil,” Joe called after him. Joe looked in the crumpled bag. There was a crumpled root beer can, an apple core, an empty bag of chips, and a crust of bread.

  “Well, we know what his eating habits are,” Joe said. He looked toward the grove of trees. “I have a hunch, Phil. Snowdon’s hiding something, and I think I know what it is. Come on.”

  As Joe and Phil walked toward the grove of trees, the smell of hickory became sharper. At the center of the grove, they came upon on an old wooden shack. “It’s a smokehouse,” Joe quietly told his friend. “And it’s my guess that Henry Low River is hiding inside it.”

  “Okay,” Phil said. “And I suppose you want to go in and find him?”

  Joe smiled and nodded yes. Phil shook his head no. When Joe didn’t budge, Phil sighed, then nodded as well. Phil opened the door, and they slipped in. Hams hung from hooks, as did a lit lantern and some sides of bacon. Hickory chips smoldered in a long rectangular barbecue grill that ran along the back wall. But there was no sign of Henry Low River.

  “I guess I was wrong,” Joe said. “Let’s go.”

  Just then, Joe felt something creak beneath him. He looked down to see the floorboards moving. Before he could run to safety or even move an inch, he found himself falling through the floor!

  8 The Wrong Gun

  * * *

  Joe hit the bottom of the five-foot-deep pit with a thud. Phil knelt and stuck his head through the trapdoor. “Joe, what happened? You okay?”

  A hand reached up from the shadows and yanked Phil by the collar down into the pit. Joe saw the gleam of the blade of an ivory-handled pocketknife that was being brandished at Phil. As his eyes became accustomed to the light, he also saw the long handle of a Colt .45 revolver in their attacker’s other hand.

  “Who are you?” the voice asked from the shadows.

  “Joe Hardy,” Joe replied.

  “Phil Cohen,” his friend said, a tremble in his voice. “Harmless, nonviolent Phil Cohen.”

  “Let me guess. You’re Henry Low River?” Joe asked. The man didn’t answer. “You’re holding the knife that your grandson picked up off the floor in Toby Gill’s office, so I’m pretty sure I’m right.”

  “What if you are?” the man asked.

  “We’re not the law,” Joe assured him. “We’re just trying to help find out what happened to Toby Gill.”

  In one quick movement, the man pushed Phil over to Joe’s side of the pit. He folded his pocketknife against his chest and put it away. He kept the gun trained on the two boys.

  As the man leaned into the light, Joe got a good look at him. Low River looked younger than Joe had expected, maybe fifty. He had a strong face, with imposing features and wrinkles around the eyes. His hair was long and black with silver strands.

  “I’ll tell you where Gill is,” Low River said. “He’s running. He cruised, the same way he did after he rooked me in Texas.”

  “If that’s true, what were you doing parked behind his office this morning?” Joe asked.

  “Hanging out. Hoping he might come back for something,” Low River said. “I had gone to his office earlier to flush him out.”

  “Flush him out?” Phil asked.

  “To make him fess up to being the crook that he is,” Low River said. “I brought my Colt along in case he needed persuading.”

  “What did Gill do when you confronted him?” Joe asked.

  “Never happened, man,” Low River grumbled. “When I got there, he was packing up his car like his house was on fire. He saw me and burned rubber. I burned rubber after him. I trailed him as far as the Dust Bowl Truck Stop, then he disappeared.”

  “You mean you lost him when he walked into the truck stop?” Joe asked.

  “No, man. I mean he drove around the back and went poof. Him, his car, everything,” Low River told him. “So I headed back to his office, just in case Gill had spaced out and forgotten something.”

  “You have an interesting way of talking,” Phil said.

  Low River grinned. “Hey, I’m fifty percent Cherokee but one hundred percent old hippie.”

  Joe didn’t feel quite as threatened by Henry Low River. “Mr. Low River, would you mind . . .” Joe nodded toward the revolver.

  “Hm? Oh, yeah. This thing,” Low River said, looking at the revolver. “Shows you what I know about firesticks. I ended up buying the wrong bullets.”

  “You mean . . . ?” Phil started to ask.

  “Yeah, it’s not even loaded,” Low River said with a grin.

  “But this is loaded,” a voice above them said. Sheriff San Dimas stood over them in the smokehouse, pointing his firearm at Low River. “Drop it, Henry.”

  Joe had mixed feelings about being rescued from his situation. He now found it hard to believe that Low River could have hurt Toby Gill.

  “Mr. Low River has an explanation to cover everything,” he said to San Dimas, who was leading Low River away from the smokehouse in handcuffs.

  “Yeah, he usually does,” San Dimas remarked. Joe and Phil followed as San Dimas took his captive to the edge of a nearby river that ran behind the woods and began to walk along the bank.

  “Don’t be fooled, Joe. This guy is trouble. Last December, he slashed all four of Toby Gill’s tires.”

  “Hey, when the law won’t punish a criminal,” Low River said to San Dimas, “it’s up to the common citizen to do what can be done.”

  “In February,” San Dimas went on, “Henry blew up Toby’s toolshed with a stick of dynamite.”

  “You never proved that,” Low River insisted with a grin.

  “The joke’s over, Henry,” San Dimas said solemnly. Up ahead Joe saw a tow truck backing up to the edge of a river. Sticking out of the water was the rear fender and taillight of a cream-colored automobile.

  “Recognize that car?” San Dimas asked Low River.

  Low River stared, shaking his head, until he finally found his voice. “It’s Toby Gill’s.”

  Low River told his story—-how he had followed Gill to the truck stop and lost him. As bad as Joe thought it looked for Low River then, it looked worse after the tow truck pulled Gill’s car onto the embankment. There was a bullet hole in the window of the driver’s side and another hole in the seat.

  “If Toby Gill was sitting in the driver’s seat when that shot was fired,” San Dimas said, “we may have more than a kidnapping on our hands.”

  “I don’t know anything about this,” Low River said vehemently.

  “Your neighbor remembers seeing this car drive up to your house at about two this afternoon,” San Dimas reported. “He didn’t see who was driving, but twenty minutes later he heard a gunshot. When he looked out his window, the car wasn’t there anymore.”

  “No way, man! I’m being framed!” Low River shouted.

  Joe knew he should tell the sheriff about Mr. Low River’s pocketknife, but he decided to keep the information to himself for now.

  As the tow truck hoisted up the rear tires of Gill’s car, Joe noticed a large, heavy polished rock jammed against the gas pedal. “Look at this,” he said, “This rock was probably used as a weight to press down the gas pedal when the perpetrator drove the car into the river, but what exactly is it?”

  “A petrified wood paperweight,” Phil told his friend. “They sell them in souvenir shops all around-here.”

  Joe saw a gold pen holder attached to the paperweight. The pen itself appeared to be missing.

  “Henry, you’re going to have to come in with me for questioning,” San Dimas said. He helped Low River into the back of his squad
car, got into the front, and drove away.

  Joe shined the flashlight on his watch. It was after midnight. “I think it’s time to call it a day, Phil.”

  “Good idea, Joe,” his friend agreed wearily.

  • • •

  Back at Windstormer headquarters, Joe and Phil hooked up with Frank, who filled them in on what he had found out about Kanner selling his property. “I also went by the Sandman Motel. Kanner rented a room there, but no one answered when I knocked.”

  “I’m guessing Kanner’s going to take the money and run,” Joe said. “If we could just keep him in town long enough to prove our suspicions about him.”

  “Let’s talk to Alvin Bixby in the morning before he hands over that fat insurance check to Kanner,” Frank suggested. “If Bixby will delay paying him even for a few days, it might be long enough for us to get to the bottom of this.”

  “We need to tell you about Toby Gill,” Phil told Frank.

  “Toby Gill!” Frank exclaimed, smacking his forehead. “Wait till you hear what I found out. Oscar Lucas saw Gill packing up and leaving his office this morning. Low River followed him and threw an empty box of thirty-eight cartridges out his window as he passed the diner.”

  “Thirty-eight caliber?” Joe said. “So maybe Mr. Low River was telling the truth about buying the wrong bullets.” Joe saw the confused look on his brother’s face and quickly told Frank about the events of the night.

  “The evidence is mounting against Mr. Low River,” Phil said, “and either Snowdon is involved, or he’s trying to cover up for his grandfather.”

  “Unless Mr. Low River really is being framed,” Joe countered, “and Snowdon is just trying to protect him.”

  “If we believe Low River, Joe, that means Toby Gill is a swindler and was probably closing shop and leaving town this morning,” Frank said.

  “But why?” Phil wondered.

  “Remember when I asked who would profit from Toby Gill’s disappearance?” Frank said. “There was one person we forgot to mention: Toby Gill himself.”

  “Of course,” Joe said. “He collects thousands of dollars in insurance premiums and then skips town before he has to pay out on any damages.”