The Alaskan Adventure (11 page)

Laughing, Mona handed it to him. He wrapped it around twice and turned to leave.

“Lucky?” Frank said quickly. “Were you down by Ralph Hunter's fishwheel? Jake said he saw you there.”

“What? When?” Lucky demanded.

“Less than half an hour ago,” Joe told him.

Lucky's face turned red. “He's lying through his teeth!” he shouted. “I haven't been down that way all day.”

Peter looked puzzled. “How could Jake have seen Lucky down there?” he asked. “He was here with us. Jake must have made a mistake.”

“It's easy to get people confused in winter,” Mona added. “Everybody's so bundled up.”

“That must be it,” Frank said.

“Anything wrong with Ralph's fishwheel?” Lucky asked suspiciously.

“Not that we know of,” Joe replied.

“Because if something
does
go wrong with it,” Lucky continued, “you won't have to look far to know who to blame. That lying, gouging, money-grubber Jake Ferguson, that's who!”

He stomped out, slamming the cabin door behind him.

Peter looked over at Frank and Joe and said, “Would you believe that, under that gruff exterior, Lucky is a kind, considerate friend? No? I
didn't think so. Half the time I don't believe it myself. But it's true, just the same.”

The door opened, and Justine came in with an armload of firewood. When she saw Frank and Joe, she said, “Hi. Did you find out about the dynamite?”

Peter and Mona looked surprised. Frank told them about the envelope Justine had seen, then gave them Curt's explanation. “He could have been lying,” Frank concluded. “But I can't figure out why he'd risk getting mail from a dynamite company if he's mixed up in criminal activity.”

“Everything that's happened is so confusing,” Peter said, rubbing his forehead. “I hope you can straighten it out before it wrecks our community.”

“Speaking of the community,” Mona said, “tomorrow is a big day here, and we want you to be part of it.”

“What's happening?” Joe asked.

“It's a ceremony we have every year,” she explained. “A potlatch, with singing and dancing and a big feast to celebrate the return of spring.”

•  •  •

The next morning Joe and Frank were out for a walk when they spotted Peter and David at the foot of a hill on the outskirts of town. Peter waved for the Hardys to join them. They all hiked up the hill to a clearing surrounded by a rail fence.
Joe spotted a headstone just inside the gate, poking through the snow, and realized this was the town cemetery.

Willy Ekus was there, staring at a headstone. When he saw Peter, he turned and left the cemetery, keeping a careful distance from them. That reminded Joe that he and Frank had suspected Willy of setting Peter's cabin on fire. Yet afterward Willy had dropped out of sight and out of their thoughts. Had he been lurking about the past two days, carrying on a campaign of sabotage?

When he got a chance, Joe took David aside and asked him about Willy.

“He's been away,” David replied. “He has a valuable trapline up on the Mink River—
not
the one he and Uncle Peter keep arguing over. Every week he takes his team up there and spends a couple of days checking and resetting his traps.”

Joe relayed this information to Frank later. “So, if it checks out,” he concluded, “we'll have to cross Willy off our list, too. That list is getting awfully short.”

“That's called the process of elimination,” Frank pointed out. “It means we're getting somewhere.”

“Unless we run out of suspects,” Joe retorted. “Then it's called getting nowhere!”

•  •  •

That afternoon Frank and Joe joined the townspeople at the potlatch in the assembly room. A group of Athabascans stood up to sing in their native language, moving their bent hands and forearms up and down in front of them in time to the hypnotic chanting. Others shuffled their feet in a dance, turning slowly to the steady rhythms.

When the dance was over, the oldest member of the group spoke about the meaning of the day. When he was finished, two Athabascan women in traditional dress came forward. One was carrying a caldron, and the other carried a stack of bowls and a ladle. They went up to each person in turn and handed him or her a bowl of steaming broth.

“What's that?” Joe asked David in an undertone.

David grinned. “A ceremonial soup,” he said. “Everybody must taste it. It's the custom.”

Joe glanced at Frank, then asked, “What's in it?”

David's grin widened. “Moose head,” he replied. “It's really good.”

“It's made with a real moose head?” Frank asked.

David nodded, then said, “Don't worry, it's just for flavor. You'll like it.”

The two women reached Joe and handed him a bowl. He gulped, then raised it and took a sip.
He wouldn't say he liked it, but it wasn't nearly as bad as he had expected. He tasted salt more than anything else.

He looked around the room. Everyone else seemed to be polishing off the soup and wanting more. Then something caught his eye.

“Frank?” he whispered. “I just saw Jake going out the door with a sneaky look on his face. I think we should see what he's up to.”

“Right,” Frank replied. “David, we've got something we have to do. We'll be right back.”

“Was the soup that bad?” David asked, smiling.

“We'll explain later,” Joe said, dragging Frank toward the door.

The Hardys followed Jake toward the west end of town and saw him vanish behind one of the cabins.

“Let's get up on that rise behind the cabin,” Joe suggested. “We'll be able to see him from there.”

They ran up through a band of trees, then crawled to the edge of a low cliff and looked over. The roof and rear wall of the cabin looked almost close enough to touch.

“What's he doing?” Frank whispered.

Joe narrowed his eyes. Jake was standing at the back of the cabin, near the door, glancing around suspiciously. He reached up and snatched two
pairs of snowshoes hanging from a peg. He tucked them under his left arm, then reached inside his parka and tossed something down on the ground.

“He's stealing those snowshoes!” Frank declared. “What a slimeball!”

“What did he drop?” Joe asked. “We're too far up. I can't see.” He moved forward to get a better look. But his hands slipped on the ice at the edge of the drop. He slid forward, over the cliff.

Frank heard Joe cry out. He turned his head just in time to see Joe slide past him on the steep, ice-coated slope. With lightning-fast reflexes, Frank darted out his right hand and grabbed Joe's left ankle as he went over the cliff. He felt the force of Joe's weight start to pull him toward the edge. Frantically he dug the toes of his boots into the snow but failed to get a grip. He felt himself sliding forward.

Just as it looked as if he and Joe were both going to plummet to the rocks thirty feet below, Frank managed to hook his left foot around the trunk of a small cedar. The tree bent with the strain, but the roots held.

“Hang on, Joe,” Frank called. “I'll pull you back up.”

“Hurry! I think I'm going to pass out.”

Frank managed to clamp his left hand on Joe's ankle, taking some of the strain off his right arm. Contracting his abdominal muscles, he inched backward, towing Joe after him. Joe managed to get his other foot up, and Frank grabbed his right ankle and pulled Joe half onto the cliff. Joe clawed the ice with his hands, elbows, and knees, holding on to his precarious purchase on life.

Finally Frank was able to kneel, and with one last tug he pulled Joe all the way up over the edge. The two brothers sprawled, arms outstretched and chests heaving, and tried to catch their breaths.

“Whew. Thanks, bro,” Joe said. “I thought I was going to skydive without a parachute.”

“You know Dad would have a fit if you tried something that dumb,” Frank said. He clapped Joe on the shoulder.

“Jake dropped something,” Joe said, “just before I went over the edge.”

“I know. I couldn't see what it was. Do you feel okay?”

Joe stood up. “Let's go see.”

They made their way carefully down the slope.

When they reached the back of the cabin,
Frank bent down and picked up a hammer. “Look,” he said. “It's got
LM
scratched into the wood of the handle.”

Joe peered at the tool and said, “
LM
—Lucky Moeller.”

“Jake stole the snowshoes and planted the hammer here so Lucky would get the blame,” Frank said.

“I bet this cabin belongs to someone who's spoken out against the ThemeLife project, too.”

“That's the pattern,” Frank agreed. “Are you thinking what I'm thinking?”

“You mean, that Jake's the bad guy we're after?” Joe replied. “It sure looks that way. And I'll tell you something else. I bet we came along yesterday just in time to save Ralph's fishwheel from being vandalized the same way his boat was.”

“You're probably right,” Frank said. “The problem is, we don't have a bit of evidence against him. We saw him take those snowshoes, but that's it. It's not enough.”

“Do you have a plan?” Joe asked.

Frank stroked his chin. “Not quite . . . but I'm starting to get a glimmer of one.”

The Hardys walked back to the assembly hall. The potlatch was breaking up.

“Follow my lead,” Frank muttered to Joe.

The two brothers walked up to Curt. “Can we talk to you privately?” Frank asked him in a low voice.

Curt gave them a measuring look, then nodded. “I'll meet you at my cabin in ten minutes,” he said.

At Curt's cabin Frank started the discussion by saying, “You know, a lot of people are blaming you and your company for the disasters the people of Glitter have been having recently.”

“That's completely unfair,” Curt said. “My company and I have nothing to do with them, nothing at all.”

“ThemeLife has a fine reputation,” Frank said. “And my brother and I believe you're innocent. We can give you a way of proving it—help us trap the real culprit.”

“But you're just kids,” Curt said. “How—”

“We may be young, but Joe and I have solved quite a few cases. Our father is well known in the investigative field. You can ask David Natik about us—he's seen my family at work before, and he's asked us to help him.”

“David's a good man,” Curt said, “from a good family—even if they do oppose the ThemeLife plan. I want this business cleared up. It's only right, and besides, my job's on the line.”

Frank gave Joe a significant glance. They knew that if Curt had objected to helping trap the bad
guy, it might have meant Curt had hired Jake to do his dirty work. His willingness to help them made that less likely.

“Great!” Joe said. “Let's go get him.”

Curt stared at him. “You know who it is?”

Joe nodded. “Jake Ferguson,” he said.

“That—” Curt exclaimed. “So he's the one! Well, I can't say I'm surprised. Do you know that Jake's been cornering the market in traditional crafts around here? He gives easy credit to people, then when they're up to their ears in debt, he takes the beaded mukluks and other Athabascan relics they've inherited to clear the slate. He's got stuff socked away that any museum would pay a fortune to have.”

“So that's why he's doing everything he can to get the town to vote yes,” Joe said. “If Glitter becomes a theme park, he'll make a bundle showing his collection and selling reproductions to tourists. The craftspeople who owe him money will have to make the copies for pennies. What a racket!”

“Listen, Curt,” Frank said. “Here's what we'd like you to do. Write a note to Jake on your letterhead. Tell him you appreciate his activities on behalf of your company and you'd like to talk about closer cooperation. Set up a meeting.”

Curt pursed his lips and shook his head. “If anyone found out about it, I'd be in real trouble.
My note would be proof that I support his criminal activities. No way, boys. Sorry.”

“The note won't say anything about sabotage,” Joe pointed out. “ ‘Activities' could just mean telling people the plan's a good thing for the town.”

“You won't be incriminating yourself at all,” Frank added as persuasively as he could. “Jake will understand what the note means.”

“It's a big risk,” Curt said.

“We're going to catch Jake, sooner or later,” Frank said. “What if he decides to throw all the blame on you and ThemeLife? Everybody will believe him. This way you'll have proof you're not part of his plot.”

Curt frowned and said, “I see your point, Frank. I can't say I like it, but I'll go along with you.”

He took out a sheet of ThemeLife letterhead and started writing. “When and where?” he asked.

Frank looked around. Curt's cabin was as small as the one he and Joe were sharing. Curt had set up the living area as an office. He also had a sleeping alcove and a tiny kitchen in the corner. The windows were small and double paned against the cold. He doubted he and Joe could hear a conversation if they stood outside.

He glanced up and saw a loft over the kitchen
and sleeping alcove. “Is there any room up there?” he asked Curt, and pointed to the loft.

“I guess so,” Curt replied. “I've never looked. I'm just renting this place month to month. If ThemeLife goes through and I'm assigned to run it, I'll probably build my own cabin.”

Frank and Joe climbed the narrow ladder to the loft. Behind a stack of old cartons and casks was an empty space about four feet by six. It was hidden from anyone standing below.

“Perfect,” Frank called to Curt. “Write down that you'll meet him here in an hour and a half. That'll give us time to make our preparations.”