Disclaimer: I do not own the Hardy Boys or any of the canon book characters, and am making no monies from this story. Any Original Characters belong to the author(s).
Note: This story was originally co-written with another person, who is not currently available to ask for permission to post it. Therefore it is being posted under one author name. Also, it was written in the late 1990s, so technology is not at a 2017 level. People still used landline phones! Please pardon this.
September Song
By EvergreenDreamweaver
Chapter 4
Frank glanced around. The coffee shop was filled to overflowing with people, and the many conversations made it difficult to hear Megan's soft voice. "Why don't we go outside; maybe take a walk, and you can tell me the whole story." He quickly drained his cup, then rose and took Megan's arm to guide her from the little store.
Once outside in the bright fall sunshine, Frank steered her towards a tiny park a block or two away. "Come on, let's walk over to the park."
They walked in silence. Megan was tense at first, but Frank could feel, through the contact he kept with her elbow, that she was beginning to relax a little. He kept her walking until finally she halted and turned towards him.
"I'm all right now. You've been really nice, putting up with me like this." She pointed to a nearby park bench. "Could we sit down?" They settled onto the bench, halfway facing each other, and Megan began her story.
"We lived in New York until last year. My father commuted to Bayport; he worked as an accountant for Ted Crowley Manufacturing. You know where that is, out in the industrial area?" Frank nodded quickly, encouraging her to continue. "I hate Ted Crowley. He's arrogant and he's always rude. Every time I've ever seen him, he's been – creepy. Sometimes I feel like he wants to – no, never mind, that doesn't have anything to do with my dad!" She shuddered a little, and Frank reached to take her hand.
"Take it easy," he murmured. "Just take it slowly, and tell me everything."
She nodded and continued, clasping his hand tightly. "My father was killed in an car wreck, about four months ago. His car went over an embankment near the cliffs. Not into the Bay, but close to there. When the autopsy was performed, the medical examiner found that his blood-alcohol level was point two-five. So the police simply dropped the matter; just another drunk driver."
Frank whistled softly. "Point two-five? Megan, that's way over the legal limit!"
"I know, I know! but listen! My father would never have driven drunk. He hardly ever drank at all anyway – maybe an occasional glass of wine with dinner; something like that. He certainly never drank enough to impair his driving ability. He used to lecture me on the horrors of driving under the influence, and he told me that if I'd ever been drinking, I should never drive. He'd say, 'Meggie, just call me. No matter what time it is, or where I have to come; if it's a choice of you driving drunk or me coming to get you, I'll take coming to get you every time!' I know he hadn't been drinking. He didn't even like Scotch, but that's what the medical examiner found in his stomach!" Her voice was rising in volume and shaking again, and her hands, beneath Frank's, were so tightly clenched the knuckles were white.
"Shhh, shhh, take it easy." Frank soothed gently. After a few moments, Megan regained her composure and continued.
"So – he died. We had the funeral. My mom was almost completely devastated; they were really close, and she loved him very much. And so did I." She swallowed hard. "Ted Crowley came to the funeral service. I suppose he had a right to be there; he was Dad's employer, after all. But I hated it that he came. And afterward, outside the church, he came over to my mother and started asking her questions. Questions about whether Dad ever brought home work from the plant; accounting records, that kind of thing. My mother told him no, she didn't believe Dad had ever done anything like that. But Crowley didn't believe her, I guess. He started demanding that if Dad had brought anything home, it had to be returned right away, because it was company property. My mom repeated that Dad never did work for Crowley Manufacturing at home, but he kept on badgering her. Finally, I told him to leave us alone or I'd swear out a harassment complaint against him. He left, then."
She sighed. "I'm sorry, Frank, this is taking so much longer than I thought it would. Just talking about it – reliving it – I didn't think I would get so upset."
"Hey, I'm not going anywhere," Frank said. "You take all the time you want. Are you getting cold, or anything? Do you want to walk awhile?"
"No, I don't really feel like walking. Sitting here is okay. I'm just so awfully – I don't know – too emotional, I guess."
Frank hesitated a split second, then put his arm about her shoulders. "Just relax for a second, okay? We'll get through this; nobody's in a hurry."
She leaned against his arm. "I feel like I've known you for years, instead of only meeting you yesterday. Anyone ever tell you you're an awfully comforting person to have around?" Incredibly, a smile was forming; the elusive dimple flashed, and her eyes were starry again.
"Uh – no, I don't think so." Anyone ever tell you that you have the most beautiful eyes on the whole planet? He cleared his throat. "If you're feeling better, go on with the story."
"Okay. Well, about a month ago – that's three months after my father died – our house was broken into. Apparently nothing was stolen, but the place was ransacked. Everything tossed around, turned upside down, spread all over. The police called it random vandalism. But I noticed something kind of odd about it. The most mess was in my dad's den, like whoever it was had been searching for something particular in there. I have no idea what anyone could have wanted in his den – all he had were accounting books and stuff, and old magazines that he intended to read when he had time, and photos of my mother and me. All our photo albums were in there. They were dumped around, but at least the pictures weren't damaged. When I remembered the way Ted Crowley had acted after the funeral, I wondered if maybe he wasn't the one behind the break-in. And then I started thinking a little more. I began to wonder if he might not be responsible for my father's death."
Frank sat up straight, startled. "That's a pretty stiff accusation, Megan!"
"I know, I know. And I don't have any proof of anything, so I can't go to the police. I don't have enough money to hire a private investigator; I'm going to college on a scholarship as it is!" She turned and looked him straight in the eyes. "Frank, I know your reputation as a detective, you and your brother too. I realize you aren't licensed investigators, but you know your way around. I'm asking you – begging you – would you please, please look into this situation for me? I can't pay you much, but – "
"Don't worry about the money," Frank interrupted. He chewed his lip in thoughtful silence for a moment. "Megan, I'll be honest with you. It's pretty shaky. You don't have any proof, and nothing but speculation to explain why you believe as you do. Joe and I usually like to have something more substantial to work with."
Her face fell. "I was afraid you'd say that."
"Hold on, I didn't say 'no' yet. I just said it was shaky." His dark eyes twinkled a little as he looked down at her. "It wouldn't be the first time we went out chasing phantoms."
"Then you'll do it?"
"Let's say we talk to Joe and see what he thinks. If he's okay with it, we'll give it a shot. How's that?"
"Oh, Frank, thank you, thank you, thank you!" Megan threw her arms about his neck and hugged him tightly, burying her face against his chest. Frank automatically clasped her in return, patting her back gently.
"Hey, it's not a done deal yet; you still have to convince my little brother that we haven't both lost our minds!"
Megan jumped up from the park bench, tugging Frank to his feet. "Can we go talk to him now? Please?"
Frank laughed, shaking his head in defeat. "Okay. I give up. Let's go." Maybe she hasn't lost her mind, but I'm pretty sure I'm losing mine!
Frank drove toward his home, keeping an eye on the rearview mirror, watching to make sure Megan's Honda was keeping pace, and he wasn't losing her. But she stuck tight, never allowing more than one or two cars between them, and soon they swung around the corner onto Elm Street. Frank pulled into the driveway, and Megan parked on the street.
As he got out of the van, Frank spotted his mother on the front porch. She was doing something involving clippers and the hanging baskets of fuchsias, and she waved cheerfully at him.
"Hi!" she called. Then, realizing Frank had someone with him, she stepped down from the stool she was standing on, and waited, smiling at them both.
"Mom, this is Megan Wright, a friend from school. Megan, my mom, Laura Hardy."
"Hello, Megan, it's nice to meet you." Laura pulled off a gardening glove and extended her hand. "Welcome – and pardon the dirt!"
"Hi, Mrs. Hardy." Megan smiled shyly. "It's okay – my mom messes around with flowers, too. I'm used to it."
"Is Joe up yet?" Frank asked.
His mother shook her head. "He wasn't when I came outside. But it's – " she glanced at her wristwatch, "time he was awake. Even considering the game and the dance last night."
"I'll go wake him up. We need to talk to him." Frank departed into the house. Megan dropped to a seat on the steps.
"Please don't let me interrupt what you're doing, Mrs. Hardy," she urged.
Laura laughed, and resumed her stance on the little stool. "All I'm doing is removing dead blossoms and clipping things back. Tidying, I suppose you'd call it. This late in the year, it's not going to encourage them to grow any more, but it does make them look a little better!"
Upstairs, Frank saw his brother's door was still closed tight, but he circumvented that by going into his own room and through the bathroom. He quietly opened Joe's door, and surveyed his room. Doesn't that kid ever hang anything up? It looks like Hurricane Josephine hit this place!
Joe was sprawled on his stomach, face buried in his pillow, but he stirred at the sound of the door opening. Hallelujah, he's not sound asleep, anyway! Frank thought. He tapped lightly on the door frame.
"Joe? Hey, Joe, wake up."
"Lemme 'lone," Joe mumbled. "'m asleep."
"No you're not. Wake up."
Joe rolled onto his back and squinted at his brother. "If I'm not asleep, why are you telling me to wake up?"
"Will you stop it?" Frank snapped in exasperation. "Come on, get up. We have company downstairs."
"If it's Chet, tell him to go away. I saw him yesterday. And the day before..." Joe turned onto his face again.
"It's not Chet," Frank said through gritted teeth. "It's a friend of mine from school. A friend with a problem. Maybe a case. Now will you get up?"
Joe opened one eye and surveyed his brother. "A case? That's a little more interesting." He flopped over once again and yawned. "Sure, okay, I'll be down in a little while…what's his name?"
Frank couldn't pass this one up. "Her name is Megan Wright. So don't come wandering downstairs in your boxer shorts, please!" He dodged out of the room, grinning.
"Since when do I wander around in my – hey, what'd you say?" Joe sat bolt upright. "Frank?" But his older brother was gone. Fuming, Joe shoved the covers back and hauled himself out of bed.
When Frank got to the bottom of the stairs, he could hear his mother chatting with Megan on the porch, and recognized ripples of laughter from them both. Smiling, pleased that they were getting along, he went out the front door.
"…I certainly don't have the proverbial green thumb," Mrs. Hardy was saying. "I have to have plants that can grow on their own, without much babying. But I'm awfully good at chopping things down and cutting things back!" She laughed, and Megan joined in again. Turning to her older son, Laura added, "Joe getting up?"
"Uh-huh, I think so." Frank didn't elaborate as to just why Joe was rising so speedily. "Uh – Mom – you know, Megan and I didn't really have breakfast; we just had coffee and a roll…."
Laura lifted an eyebrow. "Why do I think this is heading someplace?" she murmured.
"Well, I just thought – if maybe you were going to get Joe something…" Frank let his voice trail off suggestively. He smiled as sweetly as he could at his mother – and although Frank didn't have Joe's ability to wheedle, he'd been watching him do it for 17 years, and had picked up the basic technique.
His mother shook her head and laughed. There was a mischievous glint in her eyes that made her look very much like Joe. "Megan, do you like scrambled eggs?" She stepped down from her stool once more, set down her clippers and stripped off her gloves.
"Well – yes, but – but, Mrs. Hardy, I didn't – I didn't come here so that you would feed me breakfast…" Megan protested.
"If I'm feeding Joe and Frank, adding you to the mix won't make much difference," Laura smiled. She headed for the door.
"Can I help you?" Megan offered, starting to rise.
"No, honey, just stay put! Entertain Frank. If I need any help, I'll yell."
"She said to entertain me," Frank hinted, sitting down on the steps beside Megan, as his mother disappeared into the house.
"Fine. Let's talk about Chapter 3 of the survey book." Megan's aqua eyes twinkled as she made room for him.
Fifteen minutes later they were gathered in the kitchen, where Laura passed out plates of scrambled eggs, bacon and toast. Joe had appeared just as Frank and Megan came in from the porch. His hair was damp from his shower, and he was clad in khaki shorts and a tee-shirt emblazoned with the words: "NEVER UNDERESTIMATE THE POWER OF STUPID PEOPLE IN LARGE GROUPS."
"Megan, this is my brother, Joe," Frank introduced them. "Joe, Megan Wright, from my Criminal Justice Systems Survey class."
"Hi," Joe nodded, smiling. Frank saw his eyes widen in appreciation as he took in Megan's appearance. Frank cleared his throat softly, and threw Joe a warning look, over Megan's head.
"Let's eat," he suggested, tersely.
Over breakfast, they chatted mostly about the previous evening's football game. Joe was full of complaints about his bruises, and vowed it was the worst pounding he'd ever taken in his varsity career. Frank, who had taken his share of lumps as quarterback, the past two years, actually did sympathize, but kept teasing him about having become soft. Megan listened, smiled at the teasing, and finally asked questions that showed she knew something about the game. Joe's eyebrows elevated in surprise.
"You like football?" he asked in amazement.
"Very much," she replied. "I like college ball the best, but high school ball's fun, too. I don't follow the NFL much, but I do like the Patriots and Jets, of course, since they're sort of local teams."
" 'of course,' she says," Joe repeated. "Most girls don't like or understand football. Even Vanessa prefers basketball."
"That's because she can beat you occasionally," Laura commented dryly.
"Only because I let her!" Joe countered.
Frank was silent, thinking. Callie hated football. She'd go to the games, because I was playing, but she never understood any of it. And she made sure I knew it.
When breakfast was done, Laura let the three teens clear up the mess and load the dishwasher, while she returned to her plants. Finished with that task, they went into the family room, and sat down.
"Megan needs our help," Frank began. "I want you to listen, and tell me what you think." Glancing at Megan for permission, he began to talk, telling the story as concisely as he could. Joe listened intently, blue eyes flicking from Frank's face to Megan's, and back again. He winced and murmured "I'm sorry," when Mr. Wright's death was mentioned, but otherwise remained quiet until Frank finished talking.
Then he spoke. "I think you're both out of your minds," he said bluntly.
Megan bit her lip. "I knew you were going to say that," she murmured. "I suppose you're right." She moved as if to rise.
"Hold on, wait a sec, I didn't finish!" Joe forestalled her. "I think you're both out of your minds, but I'm willing to go along with it anyway. It's not the craziest thing we've done, by a long shot."
Megan stared at him in disbelief. "But – but – Frank told me there was no evidence to work with…"
"So we go out and find some," Joe grinned. "We just have to decide where to start."
"You – I – I don't know what to say – how to thank you…" she whispered.
"Better not start throwing bouquets just yet," Frank reminded her. "We haven't done anything except agree to attempt to look into the situation."
"But that's more than I had before. And – " her eyes sparkled, in a way that Frank was beginning to recognize: she had something important to say. "I think I have a plan."