Sabotage At Willow Woods (10 page)

“You prefer this to my usual polo shirt and khakis?” I asked, spinning in a quick circle. I did feel pretty that night; Hannah had helped me arrange my wild red hair into a complicated French-braid updo. And I was
wearing a ruby pendant my dad had loaned me, which had belonged to my mom.

“I don’t prefer either,” Ned said, holding out his arm. “It’s just nice to see you. I’ve been so crazed studying for midterms this week, I’ve barely had a chance to turn on Skype.”

I couldn’t say I hadn’t noticed. Ned was a student at River Heights University, and I was used to him disappearing into little study hazes whenever midterms or finals were coming around. He was always so sweet and attentive when we
were
together, though—seriously, the sweetest guy ever—I didn’t mind.

“It’s nice to see you, too,” I said now, touching his cheek.

“Ahem.” My father’s throat-clearing broke the moment. We both turned to find him standing in the doorway, arms folded. His eyes softened a bit when he saw me. “You look beautiful, honey.”

“Thanks, Dad.” I gestured to the pendant on my neck, and he nodded, his eyes misting briefly.

Then he turned to Ned. “Back by eleven, you two?”

Ned nodded. “Of course. We’ll call or text if anything comes up.”

Dad smiled. “Have a good time.” He closed the door behind us, and Ned put his arm around me and led me to his car.

“So,” he said, once we were buckled up and the engine was running. “Tell me.”

I’d filled Ned in a little bit about the Carrie case when I’d called to invite him to the fund-raiser. But I’d really only said that the investigation up to this point had been a disaster, and Carrie was hoping this event could save her campaign. Now I went into more detail, telling him about the notes, the stationery that led me to BHS, the whole Green Club debacle. (I treaded sort of lightly around the Barney issue, though—just mentioning that he was a “nice guy” that I hated to deceive. No need to make him jealous.) I finished up with the current state of Carrie’s campaign and what she was hoping the fund-raiser would do. By the time I’d finished, we were pulling into the parking lot of the Elks Lodge.

“Wow,” Ned said, a little breathless. “This has been
one action-packed week for you, Nance. Did you actually egg that teacher’s house?”

I shook my head. “No eggs were thrown,” I said, “but I would have done what I had to do to keep my cover.”

Ned nodded appreciatively. “Hardcore,” he said. “But I’m glad you didn’t get arrested. What if your dad somehow blamed me?”

I rolled my eyes at him. “Ned, come on. Dad knows I’m the firecracker in this relationship.”

He smiled, and I looked out the window, watching people pull into the lot and climb out of their cars—a mix of young and old, high school athletes and their dates and supporters, plus parents, seniors, even a few local politicians. Did one of these people mean Carrie harm? I shuddered at the thought. Nothing unusual had happened since the dead squirrel’s arrival—but I still had the sense this wasn’t over.

“I just wish I had a lead,” I said now, knowing that Ned would follow my thinking.

Ned squeezed my shoulder. “You’ll figure it out, Nancy. You always do.” He unclipped his seat belt and
opened his door. “Shall we? You stay there; I’ll give you a hand.”

I stayed put, watching the dressed-up people come and go as Ned walked around and opened my door.

“And they say chivalry is dead,” I said as Ned reached down for my hand and helped me out of the car.

“
They
don’t know
me
,” he said with a grin.

We had to walk around to the front of the building to reach the entrance. Even before we got out of the lot, I could tell something unusual was happening. There was something electric in the air, and the event-goers in front of us were whispering and pointing, letting out the occasional, “OMG!” or
“Really?
”

“What’s going on?” Ned asked. The line to get in was sort of stuck—the older couple in front of us explained that the police weren’t letting anyone in. Something had happened to the lodge entrance.

“Something?”
I asked, craning my neck to see. “Oh, I don’t like the sound of that. Come on.”

I led Ned out of line and off the sidewalk, tromping across the lawn in my spiky heels to get around the
building and get a good view of the entrance. Now I noticed Boylestown PD cars parked haphazardly near the entrance, their lights still flashing. Four or five policemen were standing in front of the glass doors, roping it off.
Oh no . . .

That’s when I saw the blood, and my heart stopped. It was bright red, poured all over the glass doors and down the stairs leading up to them. I raised my hand to my lips, feeling light-headed—

“It’s paint,” Ned said, running up beside me and putting a hand on my back. “Smell it.”

I inhaled and could smell the chemical latex smell of paint. Ned was right; I felt a weight lift off me.
At least no one was hurt.
But this was still a pretty powerful act of vandalism. I followed the trail of red paint down the front path and saw a message scrawled there in the paint:

THIS REPRESENTS THE BLOOD OF THE ANIMALS YOU’LL KILL BY DESTROYING THEIR HABITAT!

The handwriting had the same block-style letters from both of the notes.

That’s when I noticed Julia, down on her hands and knees on the path with a bucket of soapy water, trying to scrub off the paint. Her hair had escaped its complicated updo and was poking out in all directions, making her look a little crazy. Her chic yellow dress was smeared with paint and soaked with soapy water. She looked a mess.

I glanced back at Ned, then moved closer. “Julia?”

A man with a mustache moved in from the other side, pointing his smartphone toward Julia. “Ms. Jacobs, would you say this act of vandalism is a statement
against
Ms. Kim’s controversial plan to build a sports complex on the site of a hundred-year-old forest?”

Julia stopped scrubbing and turned to face the reporter with an incredulous look. “Ya
think
?” she spit at him, shaking her head as she turned back to her scrubbing.

“Ms. Jacobs.” A slight Latina woman approached
with a notebook and pen. “Will you call off the fund-raising event tonight?”

Julia sighed and sat back on her heels, blowing her escaped bangs out of her face. “Does it matter?” I heard her mutter.

The two reporters looked at each other. “Can you repeat that?” the man asked, jabbing his smartphone closer.

I moved in closer, not liking the sound of this. “Wait, Julia—”

But if she heard me, she gave no indication. “Does it
matter
?” she asked, looking from reporter to reporter, and then turning her gaze back to the red-soaked glass doors where police still swarmed. “This is a disaster. I’ve given everything to this campaign, but we’re broke, we’re losing in the polls. . . .”

“Julia,”
I hissed through my teeth, reaching down to grab her arm. Clearly all the stress was getting to her. Julia was a genius PR rep; she knew better than to air the campaign’s dirty laundry in front of the press.
“Why don’t you come with me? We can go to the ladies’ room to freshen up.”

Julia looked at me blankly. “They won’t let us in,” she said in a small voice, “because of the vandalism. Didn’t you see?” She pointed to the front door.

Like I could have missed that.
“Julia, I think you should stop talking to these reporters before you say something you regret,” I whispered. “You’re obviously really upset—with good reason.”

I felt a gentle poke in my back and turned to find Bess and George—both dressed to the nines and both looking as baffled and disappointed as I felt.

“Hey, Nance,” George said, smoothing her green halter dress. “They’re starting to let people in the side door. The event is still a go.”

I looked at Julia. “Did you hear that? You should go inside.”

Julia nodded slowly, then pointed halfheartedly to her scrubbing bucket. “I should keep—”

“I’ll take over,” I said crisply, shooting Bess and George a meaningful look. “I’ll make sure someone
takes care of it. Bess and George will take you inside to find Carrie. I’m sure she needs you.”

Julia looked at me, her expression dazed. After what seemed like an eternity, she nodded. “Okay,” she said, dropping the sponge she still held back into the bucket and taking George’s hand.

The mustached reporter pushed his smartphone after her departing form. “Any last comments?”

“No,”
I said, at the same time Julia replied, “This campaign is a
nightmare
!”

I tried to stifle a groan as the reporters turned to each other with glee, the woman scribbling furiously.

Ned was waiting for me where I’d left him, just a few feet from where we’d spotted Julia. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“Not really,” I replied. “I think this whole vandalism thing has made Carrie’s campaign manager go crazy, and none of this is going to help Carrie.”

Ned nodded sympathetically. “What do you want to do?”

I shrugged. “I guess we should go in—”

But before I could finish the thought, I spotted a familiar face, skulking off to the side of the building, away from all of the chaos. Dark mop of hair, nose ring.
Barney!
My heart squeezed, and I felt blood rushing in my ears.
What is he doing here? Skulking around like that?

I reached out a feeble hand to touch Ned’s arm. “Excuse me for just a sec. . . .” Then I went running over to Barney.

“Hey!
” I yelled, wanting to make sure he knew I saw him, before he could dash off. “What are you doing here?”

Barney looked up. It was definitely him, though the expression he wore now—wariness, distrust, annoyance—made him look nothing like the puppyish boy I’d gotten to know. His eyes narrowed as I stepped closer, and when I was just a few feet away, I could see that he was holding a duffel bag.

He stared at me challengingly.

“What are you doing here?” I repeated.

His mouth twisted into a sneer. “That’s really none of your business,” he replied, and just as I was
beginning to wonder what accounted for the change in his demeanor, he added, “You look awfully fancy tonight—you and your
boyfriend.
”

I sighed.
Oh. Right.
“I’m sorry. Maybe I should have told you about Ned. It just didn’t seem . . . relevant.”

Barney shrugged. “Why should I be surprised? You lied about everything else.”

I bit back a retort that I’d never actually lied to him about having a boyfriend—I’d just neglected to mention Ned—as I realized I was getting sidetracked. “It just seems kind of convenient that you’re walking by with a duffel bag, after someone just spread red paint and an environmental message all over the front entrance.”

Barney’s eyes blazed. “What are you accusing me of? I’m just standing here!”

“With a duffel bag,” I added, cutting my eyes toward the zipped-up bundle.

Barney snorted. “That’s not a crime.”

“You’re right, it’s not. So why not let me see what’s inside?” I suggested, nodding at the bag.

The anger in Barney’s eyes blazed even brighter—
it was safe to say, at this point, that it had turned to hatred. A little part of me felt bad, and saddened to lose a friend, but if Barney was behind the attacks on Carrie’s campaign, I was going to stop him—right here, right now.

“I don’t have to show you anything,” he snapped, yanking the bag behind him.

I gave him a dubious look. “You don’t have to,” I agreed. “But if I get the attention of some of those officers over there, and
they
asked you, that would be a different story. . . .”

Barney groaned. He pulled the bag out from behind him and shoved it toward me. “Fine. If you’re that convinced I’m some kind of criminal, knock yourself out.”

I hesitated. His sudden giving in made me pause—it seemed like a bad sign. And I was right. When I unzipped the bag and hastily searched through, I found not red paint, but—

“Clothes?” I looked up at Barney with a confused expression.

“A uniform, actually.” Barney reached in and pulled
out a formal black pair of pants and a creased, recently ironed white shirt. “I’m waiting tables at this event.”

Ohhhh.
I felt my heart jump into my throat. “I—I’m really—”

“Sorry, I know.” Barney zipped up the bag and pulled it away, a sardonic smile on his face. “You’ve been saying that a lot lately.”

With those words, he hoisted the bag over his shoulder and headed over to a side entrance. I stood watching him for a few moments, wishing a hole would open up beneath my feet that I could crawl into.
Another stellar interrogation in the life of Nancy Drew, World’s Worst Detective,
I thought with a groan.

I spotted a bench off to the right of the entrance Barney had disappeared into, and collapsed onto it, taking a moment to collect myself. Why had I spent this entire investigation jumping to the wrong conclusions? First the stationery led us in the wrong direction. . . . That’s when an unwelcome thought crept into my mind.

The stationery.

If Barney is Eloise’s friend, couldn’t he have swiped some BTA stationery from her locker?

To lead us in the wrong direction? Perhaps to make us suspect a teacher?

My heart thumped. It was an inconvenient thought to have just then—but it kept replaying in my mind.
He practically could have grabbed some when I was there. Surely he’d had that opportunity before.
And then I realized something else.

If he’s an event waiter, couldn’t he have worked the fund-raiser where the manipulated recording was played?

My sleuth senses were tingling. I hadn’t seen Barney at the first fund-raiser—but then I hadn’t been looking, either. I’d barely met him at that point.

I jumped up and found Ned on his hands and knees, dabbing at the painted walkway with the sponge Julia had been using. “Oh, Ned,” I said breathlessly.

He looked up. “Don’t look so impressed. I’m not doing a lick of good. The paint is pretty dry by now. I think it might be a lost cause.”