Disclaimer: Anything recognizable isn't mine. 115 Cookman doesn't exist.

A/N: I'm a professional cultural anthropologist and have recently been re-contacted by the people I worked with for almost a year some time ago. The good news: Indigenous ethnobotany round two is happening within the next few months and I can't wait to get back to these people. The bad news: This type of work seriously eats into my fanfic writing time.


Chapter 2

Tuesday Morning

Nancy was still grumbling to herself the next morning when she punched in at the newsroom. Ignoring the stares—news was the one thing that travelled fast in this part of the country—she immediately poured herself a large coffee in the office kitchenette. As an afterthought, she added sugar, which she normally didn't take with her coffee. Her throat was still scratchy from yesterday.

There was a note on her desk when she logged into her workstation, in Josh's handwriting: 115 Cookman, Laura Hardy. She'd told Josh yesterday after getting out of the hospital what had happened. It looked like Josh was using his girlfriend's influence with the main gate records again.

So. Vacation with his family, that was what that Hardy person had been here for. 115 Cookman was by the place she and a lot of other Chautauqua workers called the Halls: The Hall of Philosophy, the Hall of Christ, the Hall of Missions, Alumni Hall, Pioneer Hall. It was the old section of Chautauqua, built when Chautauqua was initially imagined as a walking community. It was far more reminiscent of crowded residential urban life than where Aunt Ellen lived. So—first time visitors, probably there for a week or two, tops. Probably, they'd gone through a travel agency.

Out of curiosity Nancy brought up a search engine and typed in "Frank Hardy."

"Sons of Famed Detective Place Murderer Behind Bars," she whispered, clicking on the link.

Startled at the accompanying photo with the story, Nancy sighed. Great. So that young man yesterday really had been Frank Hardy, and it looked like his attack had been in retribution. That article was only four days old. Plus, his wallet had still had all that money in it. A simple robbery wouldn't have left that.

Scrolling down further, Nancy started wondering how much worse the situation could get. The article listed Laura Hardy as Frank's mother.

That did it. She printed off the article, finished the coffee, and slapped the sticky note with the Cookman address to the top of it. She stuffed the article into a manila envelope on the way to find Josh.

She tracked down Josh on the porch of Logan Hall. "I thought I'd go talk with that woman this morning," Nancy said, watching the newsboys set up in Bestor Plaza. The Daily was hawked every morning by younger teens in the Plaza.

"Great," Josh said with a grin. He was leaning on the porch railing, watching the newsies set up in the Plaza and by the Amphitheater. "Let me know how it goes." He went back into the building.

Nancy stood there, inhaling the scents of wet rhododendrons, idly fingering the manila envelope. That damning article was inside.

First things first: Coffee, then Cookman. She crossed the Plaza, glancing only briefly at the Muse fountain that quarters the Plaza. Smith Library, a large brick Colonial building, was on her right, and the Colonnade, an even larger Grecian-influenced building, was on her left. Vincent Brick Walk was behind her, and a main access to Logan Hall where the Daily was located. She knew there was a webcam operating in real time on the Plaza, anchored above the main door of the Colonnade; in fact, there were cameras everywhere on the grounds. There wasn't a long line yet for the tiny Starbucks gazebo by the Brick Walk Café, and it was a slightly cooler, decidedly drizzly day compared with the mugginess of the previous day. Yep. Definitely coffee. Grad school was doing horrible things to her caffeine addiction.

With all the people already in the Plaza, she didn't see the blond man following her.

###

Nancy waited in the line at the Starbucks gazebo, listening to the conversations around her. One of the newsies, a fifteen-year-old named Jake, was by the gazebo. He caught her eye and grinned.

She paid for her coffee and turned left, toward the library. Vincent Brick Walk would take her directly to the Hall of Philosophy, and from there she could easily access 115 Cookman.

"Jake, can I get a paper?" she asked, handing him the change from her coffee bill.

Man Attacked in Turner Woods, the Daily headline screeched in bold print on the first page of the second section. Nancy grimaced; Josh had certainly worked fast. The paper listed Hardy as being in critical condition at Brooks Memorial Hospital in Dunkirk. Josh had apparently convinced his girlfriend, who worked at the main gate, to give him all the particulars on the Hardys. Nancy knew that there were records and time stamps of nearly everyone's activities on the grounds of Chautauqua Institution, from first entering through the gate and scanning a gate pass to presenting that gate pass at major public events like Amphitheater lectures. Not to mention that there were security cameras almost everywhere.

Her phone buzzed with a text message. Josh. Gate and security camera warrants ready by 2 pm. Talk to Officer Jacobs.

She was going to be so glad when her stint at playing Sherlock was done and she could get back to being just an everyday reporter.

Miller Bell Tower chimed 10, then launched into an off-key rendition of "The Sound of Music," the old bells sounding faintly this far from the beach. The Tower marked the old steamboat route on Chautauqua Lake.

Nancy threaded her way through the crowds by the Amphitheater. In the 1800s, the American suffrage movement had taken root there after the initial rallies at Seneca Falls. She shivered as the drizzle became sprinkles. Well, drat, and her umbrella was back at Aunt Ellen's again. She picked up her pace, hoping that the real storm would hold off until she could talk to Laura Hardy.

It didn't. The downpour started by the time she reached the Hall of Missions, and when she finally knocked on the door of 115 Cookman, she was soaked to the skin. She'd discarded the coffee along the way when the paper cup got too wet from the drenching rain, and stood hunched over herself while waiting for Mrs. Hardy to open the door. She winced, looking up as the power line overhead snapped in the strong winds from the storm.

Nancy recognized her from the article photo as the door opened. "Laura Hardy?" she asked.

"Yes?" The older woman's eyes were guarded, dark, and suspicious under her dark blonde hair.

"Hi, I'm Nancy Drew." She was ready to explain herself, but there wasn't a need.

"Come in," she said, opening the door. Nancy nodded her thanks, a wry, apologetic smile on her face for being completely soaked through from the storm, and stepped into the foyer. Overhead, an electric mockery of a Victorian chandelier hung in the dark hallway. The floor was hard wood, slightly splintered in spots. The walls, which even Nancy could tell were drywall, were painted a light lavender. A knitted lace valence, weighted down with lavender beads, hung over the half window in the door, and the wallpaper was a stylized garden theme full of violets and spikes of lavender. The Hardys had definitely gone through a travel agency. Mrs. Hardy didn't strike Nancy as being the type of person to go to the trouble of color-coding and theming a vacation rental. Besides, 115 Cookman was a duplex housing unit for vacationers.

"The police told me you found Frank," Mrs. Hardy said. They both jumped at a sudden, bright flash of lightning that was almost immediately accompanied by a loud crash of thunder. "Oh, dear," Mrs. Hardy grimaced. "I doubt you'll be going back out in that any time soon. Let's go sit." She eyed Nancy, standing in the foyer and dripping on the violet-themed welcome mat. "Let me get you a towel."

"Oh, no, that's not necessary," Nancy started, but Mrs. Hardy stopped her with a raised palm.

"Believe me, it's the least I can do for you," Mrs. Hardy said. She motioned Nancy through to the living room.

"How is he?" Nancy asked, feeling awkward.

"Critical," came the answer, muffled in a linen closet. Mrs. Hardy handed Nancy a fluffy dark grey towel with embroidered violets along one edge. "But he'll live." She gave Nancy a piercing look. "How are you holding up? I saw you yesterday at the ER but didn't get a chance to talk to you after the cops told me who you were and why you were there, too."

"Okay," she replied, her throat suddenly thick again. No, not here! She ignored the warning feeling in her throat, and reached for the article in her bag. It was only slightly damp, a surprise after the drenching rain outside. Oil cloth bags were definitely her new favourite accessory for this weather. Thunder crashed again as the wind picked up even more.

"I don't know how much you know about me," she said finally, toying with the staple in the article's pages and mentally cursing Josh for putting her in this situation. There was a reason she just did the paperwork back home for her dad.

"You write for the Daily," Mrs. Hardy stated. She held up a folded newspaper that had been resting on the arm of the couch. "You're quite a good writer. Frank was impressed with the article you wrote about that astrophysicist who lectured at the Amphitheater last week." She paused, taking in Nancy with a pursed lip and a cock of her head, as if she was both debating what to say next and sizing up Nancy all in one go. "And yesterday you stumbled into something you wish you hadn't."

Well, that was certainly true. "What if," Nancy said carefully, holding the towel and article with both hands, "I told you I think the reason Frank Hardy was attacked was in retribution?"

"To be honest, it wouldn't be the first time," his mother replied. Thunder crashed, too close again. "What proof do you have?"

Nancy handed her the article. "Josh—my boss at the Daily—put me to finding out why Frank was attacked. I found this article this morning. Spoonface, huh?"

Mrs. Hardy made a wry face. "The killer Frank and his brother Joe were after."

"I thought you people didn't like publicity," Nancy remarked. She remembered watching undercover cop shows as a kid with her dad, who was a lawyer, and remembered how Carson Drew had always pointed out all the legal mistakes.

"Guess sometimes it comes with the territory."

They both jumped as a loud, splintering crash echoed outside. The lights in the house flickered, then went out. "That sounded like a tree or something fell on the power lines," Nancy said, frowning.

"The question is," Mrs. Hardy added, clearly spooked, "was it the storm, or was it cut?"

"I know I'm just a journalist," Nancy said, "but I was assigned to this case—to find out why Frank was attacked yesterday. Josh texted me earlier. He's got contacts all over here and is using them to get information. My research this morning told me that your whole family have worked your own cases. Josh will kill me…but I could use the help."

Mrs. Hardy nodded. "All right."

They were interrupted by Mrs. Hardy's cell phone ringing. "Mom, it's Joe," a male voice said, and Nancy could hear him clearly through the connection. "Frank's awake."

Nancy shifted uncomfortably, the towel forgotten on the couch.

"Oh, thank God," Mrs. Hardy breathed. "Listen, Joe, it's storming something fierce here. A tree knocked out the power. We'll be there as soon as we can."

"'We'?" Joe asked as Nancy shot Mrs. Hardy a questioning look.

"The girl who found him is here. She works for the Chautauquan Daily and got assigned our case, believe it or not."

"Mom, only us would have something like that happen," Joe said, laughing in disbelief.

Suddenly, Nancy's blood turned cold as she realized something. With no power…..She frantically grabbed her phone.

Talking to Hardys now, she texted Josh. Power is out on Cookman. What about Logan?

The reply came immediately. No power here either. Send me your article via your phone when you have it done. Nancy couldn't help herself as the realization hit home, with the hardness of a sledgehammer. Oh, no.

Mrs. Hardy ended her call and eyed Nancy with another of her piercing looks. "You okay?" she asked. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Somebody is after you," Nancy breathed. "No electricity and the main gate attendants can't scan our passes. No power, and whoever attacked Frank can go about completely unnoticed. There are cameras everywhere here. There are only a few spots where there aren't cameras. Oh!" Nancy exclaimed, remembering. "Josh said to talk with Officer Jacobs this afternoon about getting a warrant, at 2 pm. You and Joe need it more than I do."

The thunder was definitely moving off. Popup thunderstorms are common in Western New York in the summer.

"The police department it is," Mrs. Hardy said grimly, grabbing up rain ponchos and her keys. "Right after we check out that tree that took out the power."