09 The Clue at Black Creek Farm (4 page)

As I nodded slowly, taking this in, Ned reached for the bag and scarfed another cookie.

“Clearly this hasn't affected your appetite,” I observed with amusement.

Ned shook his head. “I'm sorry. I'm just starving. I was so busy cramming I sort of forgot to go to the dining hall for breakfast. And then for lunch.” He popped another cookie in his mouth.

“Ned, is that all you've eaten today?” I asked.

“Don't be ridiculous,” he said. “I also had a bag of Skittles and an energy drink.”

I put my hand on Ned's shoulder. “Come on,” I said. “Let's go over to the snack bar and get you something
real
to eat.”

A few minutes later we sat at a wrought-iron table in the shade just outside the university café. Ned was
chomping happily on an enormous chicken burrito, and I sipped an iced tea.

I was trying not to obsess about Rashid's findings. At least, not while Ned was eating. But “not obsessing” about a case I was working on felt like “not breathing”  to me. Finally I let out a sigh and leaned forward.

“So the cooked dishes were clean?”

Ned didn't even look surprised. He held up one finger while he swallowed and set his burrito down on a paper plate. “Not clean,” he clarified after a few seconds. “Not necessarily. Rashid said that they might have been contaminated too, but the high temperatures of cooking would likely kill off any traces. That's why we're always told to make sure chicken and fish are cooked thoroughly and to avoid eating rare beef.”

“So all the vegetables could have been contaminated,” I realized. “Does that seem strange? That it would be all of them—not just one or two dishes?”

Ned shrugged, picking up the burrito. “Strange? Sure, maybe a little. But not impossible.” He took a bite.

I tapped my finger against my lips, thinking. “But E. coli comes from the digestive system of cows. Sam was right. I researched it last night.”

Ned glanced at me briefly before taking another big bite. “Hmmmmmm.”

“It couldn't just
show up
on vegetables that are grown nowhere near cows,” I went on. “A human being would have to transfer it.”

Ned dunked what was left of his burrito in a little puddle of guacamole. “Mm-hmm.”

I folded my arms, pondering. I wasn't exactly looking for a case to solve right now. I'd been enjoying a break from sleuthing, taking up tennis, and on George's recommendation (okay, more like insistence), making it halfway through
Lost
on Netflix. I didn't want to give up my free time.

But Sam's defeated expression as I'd walked him to his car last night stuck with me.
This is my dream.
And from what Rashid had found, it seemed very likely that someone was trying to take that dream away from him.
Why?

“
Who hates an organic farm?” I asked.

Ned glanced up from his guacamole, which he was now scooping up with a spoon. “Is that the setup for a joke, Nance?”

I shook my head. “No, I'm serious. If he were still a lawyer, I could see him having enemies. Ooh . . .” I paused, bringing my hand to my mouth. “Maybe that's it? An enemy he made in his law days wants to destroy the thing that matters most to him—
his farm
!”

Ned stuck his finger into the spoon to pick up one last dab of guacamole, then stuck his finger in his mouth. “That's it, Nance,” he said, deadpan. “You've solved the case. That must be some kind of record.”

I reached out and bopped him on the head. “Stop it,” I said. “I'm serious! Who would sabotage an organic farm?”

Ned shrugged. “No one?” he asked. But I recognized an arch tone in his voice, like he was trying to point out something obvious.

“You don't
think someone is behind the E. coli?” I asked.

Ned sighed. He reached for his soda and took a long sip. “It's just . . . the guy was a lawyer, and now he's an expert organic farmer?” he asked. “You know about Occam's razor, Nance?”

I nodded. Occam's razor, the principle, actually came up a lot when solving mysteries. “Sure. Occam's razor says that the simplest solution is most likely the correct one.”

“So isn't it likely that this guy just screwed up and put something on his plants that he wasn't supposed to?” he asked. “Cow manure. Some kind of unapproved fertilizer. And the plants got contaminated, and that poor woman got sick. Lucky us, we were warned.” Ned shrugged again. “Isn't that more likely than some big bad guy sprinkling cow bile on these vegetables to make people sick? To close down a farm? Who would
do
that?”

“I don't know,” I said, fishing my phone out of my purse, “but I intend to find out.”

I opened the texting application and typed a quick note to Bess and George:
YOU GUYS FREE TO GO TO BLACK CREEK FARM TOMORROW?

Ned glanced at the text and pretended to pout. “You're going without me?”

I grinned at him. “You have midterms, remember?”

Ned startled like he'd just been reminded he had a midterm
right then
. His eyes bugged out. “Oh my gosh, you're right! What am I
doing
here, out in the world? Why did you drag me out of my study-hole, temptress?”

I laughed. “You needed to eat. If you faint in the middle of your midterm, it doesn't matter how much you studied.”

Ned nodded, sipping his drink. “Your logic is sound.”

A
ping!
sounded on my phone, and I looked down to see a text from George:
I'M IN!
As I typed out a response—
GREAT, WILL TXT U DETAILS
—Bess responded too:
OF COURSE! WHAT TIME?

I fished Sam Heyworth's business card out of my
wallet and dialed the phone number. The phone rang only once before someone picked up.

“Hello?”

It was Abby. And her voice sounded a little tremulous and unsure.

“Hi, Abby? This is Nancy Drew. We met last night?”

“Oh, of course.” Abby's voice sounded warmer now.

“Listen, I was wondering if I might set up a time tomorrow to come visit the farm with my friends Bess and George. I'd love to have a look around. Sam and I talked about it a bit last night.”

A hollow sigh echoed over the line. “That would be great, Nancy,” Abby replied in a serious tone. “In fact, the sooner the better. Something very strange has happened on the farm . . . something awful.”

I PULLED INTO THE DRIVEWAY
of black Creek Farm the next morning just after ten o'clock, with Bess in the passenger seat. George, who had to work a shift at the Coffee Cabin that afternoon, was right behind us in her own car. We both parked and climbed out, greeted by a soft breeze and gentle birdsong.

“It's beautiful here,” enthused George, taking in the gentle rolling hills shaded by old oak and pine trees. “I can see why Sam would trade some corporate office for this.”

“Let's just hope it was the right decision,” said Bess.

I followed, taking some time to soak in all the details of the farm. A circular driveway led to a modest white ranch-style house. Behind the house, I could see what looked like fields of corn, lettuce, and some crops I couldn't identify, all stretching over gently rolling hills. The fields were dotted with small storage buildings, a barn, and the occasional piece of farming equipment.

George was right: it was beautiful, and the farm looked idyllic in the midmorning sun.
You'd never guess the crops were crawling with E. coli,
I thought.
Or are they?
It was also possible, I realized, that the vegetables had been contaminated at the dinner itself and there was nothing strange going on at the farm.

“Nancy?”

I came out of my thoughts to find Bess and George watching me, a smile playing on the edges of Bess's lips.

“Do you have it all memorized and filed away?” she teased. Bess had tagged along on enough investigations to be well used to my tendency to observe
carefully and make note of little details. “Can we knock on the door now?”

“Knock away,” I agreed. We climbed onto the small porch attached to the house, and I raised my fist to knock. Just as my knuckle rapped against the wood, sounds emerged from inside.

“She's not going to eat that!”

Jack.
I recognized the voice immediately. I looked awkwardly at my friends, who were both wearing the same
uh-oh
expression that I imagined on my own face.

“Overreacting . . . perfectly safe!”

That sounded like Sam.

“Oh great,” Bess murmured, folding her arms. “We've arrived right in the middle of a huge family argument. That's not awkward!”

I lifted a finger to hush her as Jack's voice—louder than Sam's—traveled toward us again.

“Don't you even care about my unborn child? Why risk it?”

I heard the screech of a chair being pushed back quickly, followed by stomping and a female voice
making soothing sounds—possibly Julie? I couldn't be sure. I'd barely heard Jack's wife speak at the dinner.

George looked at me quizzically. “Are we waiting for this to be over?” she whispered. “Should we come back another time?”

I shook my head, realizing that made no sense. “No, let's just knock again,” I said, frowning. “I don't think they heard us before. And I have a feeling this could go on awhile.”

George nodded and lifted her hand to rap sharply on the door: four precise knocks. When we didn't immediately hear footsteps coming toward us, she knocked again, a little louder. There was silence for a moment, and then the scrambling sound of someone rushing to the door. Somebody pulled back the curtain that blocked most of the window in the door, let it fall back, and quickly swung the door open.

“Nancy!”

It was Abby, pink-cheeked and dressed in a neat button-down and jeans.

“I'm
so glad you made it! Thank you for stopping by, girls. Please, come on in.”

We cautiously followed Abby into the foyer. It was a small, neat, wood-paneled room, holding a table decorated with family photos and ceramic animals. Abby saw me looking at the animals and smiled.

“Those are our farm animals,” she said kindly. “I think Sam was a little disappointed that we decided to raise only chickens on the farm. So we got some miniature cows, pigs, and sheep for him to tend.”

“Hello, Nancy.” At the mention of his name, Sam's booming voice sprang from the doorway that led to the kitchen. “And your friends, Jess and—?”

“Bess,” Bess said with a smile, holding out her hand. Sam nodded and shook it.

“And George,” George added. “Your farm is beautiful,” she said as she and Sam shook hands.

“Thank you very much,” he replied. “Yes, it's our own little piece of paradise. Speaking of which, can I offer you some of my famous sweet potato—”

There was a loud groan from the kitchen.
Jack.

“
Dad, just throw them away!” Jack suddenly appeared behind his father, his dark eyes shining. He glanced at us but didn't acknowledge us. “I didn't just mean they're unsafe for
Julie
to eat. I meant they're unsafe for
everyone
.”

Sam sighed, his face reddening. He looked uncomfortable.

He wants to throttle Jack,
I realized.
But not in front of the three of us.

“That's a shame,” I said quickly, wanting to speak up before Sam or Abby changed the subject. “Sweet potatoes are my
favorite
vegetable. What's wrong with the . . . What kind of dish is it, Sam?”

Sam spoke without taking his eyes off his son. “Pancakes,” he replied. “My own recipe. The sweet potatoes are from the farm, of course.”

“Which makes them
unsafe
,” Jack added, a crimson color spreading over his ears and cheeks. I could make out a vein throbbing in his neck. “Come on, Dad. It isn't rocket science.”