A/N: Thanks to everyone reading, and to ChrisCorso, Cherylann Rivers, Al, MargaretA66, and sm2003495 for their reviews on the previous chapter.
"Nancy! Please be careful! I just want to tell you that I've always—" —Frank Hardy to Nancy Drew, Labyrinth of Lies, Her Interactive PC Game
Friday, August 27, 2021, Continued
Later that afternoon, Nancy pulled the shared Honda (Frank's Honda, until Joe returned to Bayport) into Fenton and Laura's driveway and turned off the ignition. Fenton rushed out of the house to greet her, quietly shutting the front door behind him. Nancy gave him a knowing smile.
"Looks like you guessed it—yes, my wife has declared the rest of the afternoon as a personal Deep Writing Session on the back porch," Fenton said, and pulled in Nancy for a hug. Nancy had a semi-close relationship with Fenton, considering all the hours her parents had paid him to teach her about private investigating years ago via Zoom—at quite an astounding discount—but his embrace made her miss her dad's embrace even more.
Nancy laughed and quoted the rules. "Therefore we are not to disturb her 'unless someone is at risk of death or dismemberment.' Fenton—I wanted to say, while we're alone, thank you so much for having me. I don't have to stay here until December 20th. Laura and I are used to consulting on the phone or computer."
"That's how you know you're young, when you think four months is a long amount of time," Fenton said as he retrieved her luggage. "We're happy to have you. You're like one of our three daughters."
Nancy's eyes lit up. "Three daughters? Does that mean that Joe and Vanessa—"
"No, unfortunately. Joe still hasn't made it official, and I wish he would...it's disturbing, how long she's waited for him." Fenton shook his head. "Anyway, if it makes you feel better, I officially promise to let you know if you're overstaying your welcome. Although I don't think you will. And Frank wants you to text him. Make yourself at home, I've got a conference call in five minutes."
Nancy thanked him. Memories resurfaced from her childhood as she re-entered the Hardy home for the first time in six years. She took a shower, texted Frank, and unpacked. She'd gotten authorization from Joe to stay in his childhood bedroom, not Frank's, even though she'd have to do a bit of cleaning and organizing to make it habitable; waking up in Frank Hardy's bed every morning would have been a bit too much. A return text pinged from Frank.
Nancy—I got back a couple of hours ago from dropping Callie off at college. Do you want to meet at the Shore Bar and Grill for dinner at 6:00, a half mile away from my parents' house? Take my advice and walk. Parking is hard to come by on Shore Road. Welcome back to Bayport.
Nancy typed an affirmative and, at the appointed time, she was the first to arrive at the pub. She sat alone at a booth in the back and returned a few texts from family and friends. She understood why Frank had chosen this location: it was loud and boisterous, with very minimal chance that their conversation would be overheard. Frank entered soon thereafter.
Out of all the friends, both in Bayport and River Heights, Nancy considered Frank to be the most unchanged since childhood. Not that he hadn't matured; rather, he'd matured early, and had already been an adult by the time Nancy had met him in ninth grade. But now he also tended to dress like he was decades older: old-fashioned beige pullover sweaters, loafers, even a ridiculous pair of Clark Kent glasses that he pulled out on occasion. He'd said the new look all but eliminated the constant ageism that Joe and Nancy still encountered on every case.
Frank slid across from her and Nancy felt the usual immediate sense of completeness, a spark even though he hadn't touched her.
Their greetings were brief, almost unnecessary; no matter how much time they spent apart, they always picked up wherever they'd left off. "Arrogant bastard," Frank said to a passing waiter.
"Your social skills are impeccable," Nancy remarked.
"It's the name of a beer," Frank explained. "You know what—make it two."
Nancy inwardly tensed but kept her expression neutral. Frank drank very sparingly. He wasn't a particularly angry drunk or stupid drunk, but his inhibitions did lower dramatically, and he was a lightweight. But Biff was Frank's friend and housemate. It was no wonder why this case would be upsetting to him.
The beers arrived immediately, the waiter placing one in front of each of them and departing. Frank laughed. "Of course, he assumed one was for you, Nancy. I guess you look over twenty-one to him," he said, and swigged half the beer before he spoke again. "I still need to send you the case file, don't I?"
Frank pressed some buttons on his phone. Nancy's phone dinged the arrival of a secure email attachment.
Nancy didn't look at it. She wanted to hear Frank's version first. The afternoon was burned into Nancy's memory, when Biff had told her years ago about his difficult childhood: the father who had beaten his mother for years, even when she was pregnant with his little sister, and abruptly abandoned the family before his sister was born. Biff himself had never been on the receiving end of the physical abuse. Nancy had many questions, but knew it was best to wait for Frank to tell the story in his own way.
"It happened exactly two weeks ago today," Frank began. "On Friday, August 13th, sometime very close to 6:45 a.m. Alan Hooper, Senior was staying at a Motel 6 in Bridgeport, a half-hour west from here. He walked a short, very rural route to a local coffee shop and picked up an espresso right when they opened at 6:30 a.m. The commuter train goes by at 6:58 a.m. Alan Hooper's body was found on the tracks, shot twice through the heart. The shooter must have thought that the commuter train would have run over the body and essentially ruin the crime scene, but, fortunately for us, the commuter train did stop in time. The local crime unit had to quickly get out there, take a few pictures, and move the body to the side."
"Life goes on. The train line had to get back in operation," Nancy said.
"Exactly." Frank finished his first beer. "And here's the creepiest part, the part that Chief Collig and I really don't like. Motel records show that Alan Hooper had been staying at that Motel 6 since the beginning of July, about a month before his death."
"What? Over a month?" Nancy didn't like it. "What was he doing hanging out for a month in a place so close to the family he'd abused?"
"Exactly. Nothing on the books, of course, no employment records, probably never did an honest day's work in his life. Chief Collig called me same day—Joe and I were away on a case, remember—and told me that Biff, his mom, and little sister Mary all seemed shocked to hear the news, and reported that that they'd had no contact with him, no idea he was so close by. Chief Collig said that Margaret Hooper burst into tears when she heard that her husband was dead, and it sure seemed to the chief like they were tears of relief." Frank appeared thoughtful. "I wish I could have been there to see the Hoopers' reactions when they heard the news."
"To comfort them?"
Frank didn't answer and Nancy had a hunch. "You're afraid that Biff had something to do with his father's death," she said. "Which is why you didn't want to work this case with Joe. You don't want Joe to know that you suspect a close mutual friend."
The waiter chose that moment to ask again if they were ready to order their food. They placed an order for a couple of appetizers, only to justify their use of the table.
Frank sighed and started on the second beer. "The whole situation is strange, to say the least. I just want to rule it out, make sure that Biff had nothing to do with it. Plus, what if years later, Biff or Mary decide they really do want to know more about their father's death? We'd be investigating a cold case, which would be a lot harder than looking into it now."
Nancy's friendship with Biff had lasted for an even shorter time period than her friendships with the rest of the Bayport gang. She didn't know Biff well enough to be able to reassure Frank. She recalled some memorable threatening language that Biff had used when contemplating what he would do if his father ever reappeared in their lives again. "Your email said that our involvement in this case is confidential. So we'll be investigating your own housemate."
Frank winced. "I'm just being paranoid, I know."
"What does Chief Collig think?"
"Chief Collig told me, not in so many words, that he's fine with Alan Hooper's murder remaining an unsolved mystery—live by the sword, die by the sword, essentially—but Chief Collig made an arrangement with Detective Shao in Bridgeport to check in with the progress of the case monthly. Mostly Chief just wants to make sure there's no chance that the Hooper family is at continued risk. I sure didn't tell him that I want to check out Biff," Frank added. "But if Alan Hooper's crew tried to recruit Biff, now that Biff is an adult, and Biff—the bottom line is, if the Hoopers are in any way responsible for Alan's death, then they might be vulnerable to a retributive attack. Chief Collig introduced me to the Bridgeport authorities, who said they'd welcome any assistance."
"So it's out of Bayport's jurisdiction," Nancy repeated, just to confirm.
"It's Windham County's jurisdiction, the county to the west of Bayport's. They assigned a rookie detective to the case, who already has a packed caseload. Which shows how much of a priority it is to them," Frank said with an eye roll. "And, of course, barring any political pressure for a conviction—highly doubtful—they'll close the case by the end of the year at the latest. Biff's father had a rap sheet a mile long, and they probably want to give a medal to the person who took him out. I looked at the list of arrests and it made me queasy. Somehow, he tended to avoid serious convictions."
Nancy detected a slur in Frank's last word. Evidently he was feeling the effects of the alcohol.
The door of the bar opened and a group of men entered, men with familiar features and gesticulating mannerisms. Nancy didn't flinch, but fixed her gaze firmly back on Frank.
"Pritos," Frank confirmed, and then, with a small smirk, "and you can relax, Tony doesn't come with them. I doubt Tony will be joining them here for another six months because he's not the legal drinking age yet. It's Friday evening, and probably a payday, so there will be Pritos trickling in and out until closing."
Nancy did not confirm nor deny that she'd been thinking about Tony. "Can we take a look at the case file now? I don't want to read anything about the day of the murder yet. Just Alan Hooper's background."
"Sure." Frank slid next to her in the booth so they could read side-by-side. Their food arrived and Nancy munched absentmindedly without tasting it. They passed several minutes in companionable silence.
"This man was certainly a shitstarter," Nancy concluded, after reading about a particularly heinous allegation. "I see why you and the chief are worried. He went out of his way to cause trouble. What are the odds that he would move back, a half-hour away from his estranged family, and leave them alone? I don't think it would take a month for him to plan an attack. Why return this summer, after leaving them alone for over eleven years?"
"Exactly. But if he did have contact with his family, why wouldn't they have initially notified anyone that he was back in town? Blackmail? Margaret Hooper would have no incentive to hide anything from the police after her husband's death if he truly came back just to torment her. He'd never met Mary, since he left before she was born, so why would he suddenly care and want to meet her now? To try to win her over, use her as a pawn to torture his ex-wife? Biff won't talk to me at all about it, just says that he wants to forget about the whole thing." Frank leaned over to scroll down the case file. Nancy was acutely aware of his thigh pressed against hers.
After another minute, Nancy turned the phone upside down. "This is killing me, Frank, looking at the paperwork before visiting the crime scene. I want to be out there just after sunrise, re-walk Alan Hooper's path to the coffee shop and back, put myself in his shoes and the culprit's shoes. How about tomorrow morning, before I get caught up in my writing?"
Frank stared into space for a very long moment. Then he appeared almost angry and shook his head. "Sorry, what?"
Nancy was grateful he hadn't ordered a third beer. "I asked if you wanted to visit the scene of the crime together early tomorrow morning."
"Maybe the day after. I signed up for this semester very late, and I have a meeting at the Registrar's Office tomorrow morning, and then I have to wait in a huge line to buy my books." A crease appeared between Frank's eyebrows.
Nancy gaped at him. "My god, Frank, are you worried about a semester at community college? You're one of the smartest people I know!"
"It's not just that," Frank hurriedly corrected her. "I'll be apart from Joe, and—everything's changed...I really am very glad that you came, Nancy. Thanks for taking this case with me." He put his hand close to hers on the table.
Nancy felt Frank's breath tickle the side of her face, warm, intimate, and sweet from the beer.
Nancy had greatly enjoyed the two kisses that she and Frank had shared in the past, in every possible way that a kiss could be enjoyed. And yet, amid the onslaught of pleasant sensory experiences, she determined that alcohol would damn well not be involved if she and Frank ever shared a third kiss. And there was absolutely no chance that anything would happen while he was dating another person.
"I shouldn't be keeping you out this late," Nancy said. "You must be exhausted after driving Callie back to school."
Frank stiffened; the mention of Callie had made the desired impact. He slid a couple of inches away from her in the booth and dropped his left arm to his side.
Nancy forced herself to speak words that she didn't want to say. "I need you to leave now," she said. "I'll stay and review the file. We'll visit the scene of the crime on Sunday."
Frank exhaled and did as told, standing and fumbling with his wallet.
"I've got it," Nancy told him. "I'll text you when I'm home safely, if you'll do the same. Your car is at your parents' house, so you must have walked?"
"Yeah, my apartment is a few blocks away. Thank you. Um—sorry." Frank walked out the bar door, only stumbling once.
It was only after he'd left that Nancy acknowledged to herself how badly she'd wanted him to stay. She leaned her elbows on the table, sinking her head into her hands. It might still happen, she told herself. That third kiss might still happen, but not like this. The statement soothed her mind, but not her heart. She regretted telling him to leave, but she'd also have regretted it if the night had taken another turn.
The waiter stopped by her table again and squinted as if appraising her mood. "Another beer?"
Nancy gazed distractedly at him, her thoughts drifting: Biff's murdered father, her insane publication deadline, Frank. "Yes," she said. "Yes, I would very much like a beer."
Soon the beverage sat in front of her, an invitation to her first public episode of underage drinking. She finished it quickly, a consolation prize, and tried to focus once more on the case file. She thought about going back to the Hardys' house, but wasn't in the mood for social pleasantries, much less to start the writing project with Laura.
The waiter placed a shot glass in front of her. "Whiskey," he said. "With compliments from those guys by the bar. The Prito family."
Nancy downed the shot in one gulp and nodded good-naturedly in acknowledgment when the Pritos whooped their encouragement. The waiter dropped off another shot and Nancy took her time with it. She ordered a soup, waited until their attention was elsewhere, and surreptitiously assessed the guys at the bar. No one that she recognized. Frank sent her a very brief text that he was home now. She took a sip of the second whiskey, enough to nurse her buzz and feel a contented connection with humanity, and returned to her work.
She learned that Alan Hooper had committed quite a bit of fraud, had rape charges that were later dropped (which made Nancy more convinced he was guilty), every conceivable drug and weapons charge. Nancy didn't see any mention of a parole officer—how was that possible? Apparently Alan Hooper could afford excellent legal representation (or blackmail? bribes?) to avoid serious prison time, perhaps earning the funds from drug money and fraud money. Nancy wondered how the apple could have fallen so far from the tree, how a man like that could produce Biff and Mary.
She was forced to stop reading when the words refused to focus and she couldn't feel her extremities. She locked her phone (which took several attempts) before she put it back in her purse. It had been dark out for a while. There were more empty shot glasses in front of her, mostly more "compliments of the Pritos"—the glasses couldn't possibly all be hers, there were too many of them—and she felt her bladder send her an urgent warning.
It wasn't until she stood up shakily that she realized how incredibly drunk she was. Going to the bathroom was much more of a staggering, precarious task than it should have been.
Afterward, grasping her purse strap and making her way back through the dark, shadowed back hallway, she had to put a hand on the wall to steady herself. Her field of vision moved rapidly from up to down, like an old broken TV, but closing her eyes increased her vertigo. She stopped moving and focused on successfully standing in place, rather than falling on her ass.
She felt a strong, warm arm around her shoulders, supporting her; she stiffened, then saw black curls and clear olive skin, and relaxed. She leaned into the embrace and soon their lips met, their kiss heated, becoming more animated. He broke away, leading her down the hallway, and soon she found herself outside in the cool late summer air, her back pressed against the brick building, quite a willing participant in this alleyway tryst.
Then things began to feel off, strange. Tony had always been an assertive, eager partner, yet never quite this hard and forceful. Even in her dizzied, confused state, Nancy got the feeling that he was concerned only with his own pleasure, not her own. She winced when he pinched too hard, and attempted to guide his hands to less sensitive areas. He broke away from their kiss, moving to her neck, and for the first time Nancy got a lighted view of his face. He wasn't Tony.
She broke out in a terrified sweat. He was strong and she was drunk, and she was effectively pinned in place. Her fingers were numb and her muscles felt like jelly, like she had no control over them. She couldn't feel her face or her lips, and her throat was desperately dry. "No…"she whispered, and then swallowed painfully, wondering if she had even made any audible sound, and tried again. "No…" her voice was still weak, muffled, pathetic—and maybe her partner was just as drunk as she was, and couldn't hear her—and the way they were standing made it impossible for her to access any vulnerable areas. He reached under her skirt and ran his hand up her thigh. Nancy felt the pressure of darkness, losing consciousness, and she gratefully welcomed it. She wanted to have no memories of what would happen next.
Then she heard the bang of the restaurant side door opening once more, a loud curse, and her partner was off her. She heard a brief scuffle, an impact, a groan of pain, a familiar male voice on his phone: "Get outside and take this asshole home. Tell everybody he passed out. And pay her bar bill while you're at it." Nancy cringed at the volume and began to slide down the wall and toward the ground.
"Nancy—stay with me." Powerful hands on her shoulders, steadying, guiding her. "Lean on me if you need to. Come this way."
Nancy knew that voice, yet wasn't inclined to trust again so easily; it took some gentle coaxing and soothing to make her understand that they were walking out of the alleyway and toward a white truck. She did need to lean on her helper to make it to the door, and careful assistance to climb inside. She could barely even sit upright.
"Close your eyes. You're safe now, Nancy. I'll take care of you."
Nancy felt a childish sense of relief, as she could definitely not take care of herself right then. She closed her eyes and in another moment heard the driver's side door open. The rumble of the truck and the smooth driving soothed her into unconsciousness.