Meanwhile, Frank had arrived at the Caudill home and was knocking on the front door. It was opened by a tall, thin woman in her late forties. "May I help you?" she inquired, her hazel eyes looking at Frank questioningly.
"I would like to see Patrick," Frank said.
"And you are?" she asked.
"My name is Frank Hardy," he introduced himself. "I go to school with Patrick."
"He wasn't feeling well today," she told him, not inviting him inside.
"Yes, I know," Frank admitted. "That's why I would like to see him."
Her gaze continued to stare at him curiously, but she stepped aside so he could enter. "Patrick is in the living room," she told him, closing the door. She led the way into the living room where an eighteen-year-old boy, roughly the same height and build as Joe but with brown hair and blue eyes sat. "Honey, you have company," she told her son.
"Um, thanks," Patrick replied, looking at Frank. He stood up. "Let's go to my room," he said and headed up the stairs, leaving Frank to follow.
"I guess you are here because of Johnson," Patrick said. "Too hard to resist a mystery in your own school, huh?"
"Principal Dylan asked us to help." Frank admitted with a nod. "How did you know that was why I was here?"
"I'm not a genius, but I'm not stupid either," Patrick said bitterly. "You probably checked his files and saw my grades had taken a dive so you thought I had killed him to get even."
"Not exactly," Frank replied.
"Look, I admit it, I am glad he's dead. But I never killed him, although under the circumstances I probably could have gotten away with it," Patrick added.
"No, you couldn't have," Frank denied.
"How do you know?" Patrick demanded. "You don't know the circumstances."
"I think I do," Frank answered gently. "Johnson threatened to fail you if you didn't give him special favors. You didn't, so your grades took a dive."
Patrick's face went white. "How do you know that?" he whispered. "You don't have him for history."
"No," Frank admitted. "But Joe does."
Patrick's eyes shot to Frank's. "He was blackmailing Joe too?"
Frank nodded, his face set in a grim line. "Yeah. And as a result, Joe and I are considered suspects in killing Johnson."
"I wished he were dead, but I never killed him," Patrick insisted.
"I believe you," Frank said, sitting down in the desk chair. "My bet is Johnson has enemies outside of the school too," he added. "People like that are just nauseating no matter where they are."
"That's putting it mildly," Patrick agreed. "When did Joe tell you about Johnson?"
"He never," Frank admitted. "He was trying to handle it on his own," he added, but left out the details as to why. "A couple of friends found out and told me."
"Did you kill him? Or maybe Joe?" Patrick asked a bit timidly.
Frank shook his head. "Oh, the thought did enter my mind. I even had a daydream as to how I would kill him if he got near Joe again, but someone killed him before he got another chance."
"I never told anyone either," Patrick admitted looking down at his feet. "That's why I'm stuck in here instead of down at the park shooting hoops with my friends. My folks grounded me because of my bad grades."
"Maybe you should tell them," Frank suggested.
"But Johnson's dead now," Patrick argued. "My grades will pick back up and everything will be fine."
Frank shook his head. "Joe and I didn't find out about your grades," he told Patrick. "The police did. You will probably be picked up for questioning soon," he added.
"But you said you believed me!" he shouted, upset.
"I do," Frank assured him. "But the police have to do their job."
"Great," Patrick said miserably. "What are they going to say?" he asked himself in self-despair.
"Want me to stay while you tell them?" Frank asked.
"Tell who what?" asked Patrick's father coming into the room and carrying two glasses of lemonade. "Your mom thought you two might be thirsty," he added to Patrick.
Frank stood up to greet the tall balding man in his early fifties. "Hello, Sir," he said. "I'm Frank Hardy."
"Nice to meet you Frank. Now, tell who what?" he asked again, looking back at his son.
"I'd better be off," Frank said, standing up and shooting Patrick an encouraging look. Frank had seen the look in Mr. Caudill's eyes and it matched the one his father always had when he was concerned about him or Joe.
Frank left the Caudills and decided to stop off at Mr. Pizza where Callie had told him she could be found after school. "Hey! Frank!" a voice shouted at him as he exited the van in the parking lot at Mr. Pizza.
Frank looked over to see who had shouted at him and noticed Stanley, a guy from his French class, waving to him. "Hey!" Frank shouted and waved back.
"Want to go to the exhibit at the museum?" Stanley asked Frank, coming over. "It's the one our French teacher was talking about."
"Thanks," Frank said, "but after I grab a bite, I've got to meet Joe."
"Oh," Stanley said. "I thought he had to work on chemistry with Nathan."
"He does, but it shouldn't take long," Frank told him. "Joe's just doing it to help Nathan out. We have a lab at home where he could do his experiment."
"That's nice of Joe," Stanley said, smiling.
"Yeah, Joe's always trying to help people out," Frank agreed with a frown as he thought about what his brother had been through recently and how unfair it seemed.
"Well, maybe some other time," Stanley said and took off.
"Hi, Nathan," Joe said, coming into his room.
"Nathan looked up as Joe came into the room. "Hey, Joe," he replied. "Mom, Dad, this is Joe Hardy, my lab partner."
"Hello Joe," they greeted him.
"Hello," he acknowledged. "What happened?" he asked Nathan. "Mr. Turnmire said you had gotten injured in gym."
"I hurt my back," Nathan admitted.
"How?" Joe demanded.
"We were running laps in the gym and as I was passing the door where the supplies were stored, all the basketballs and soccer balls came rolling out in front of me. I was going too fast to stop. I thought I was going to break my ankle, but instead, by the time I had landed on the floor, my back was killing me."