The Chase for the Mystery Twister (3 page)

“Hey!” Joe shouted after him, then turned to Snowdon. “Was that Toby Gill?”

“No,” Snowdon replied, wrinkling his forehead. “No, it wasn't.” He turned and walked back inside without saying anything else. Joe and Frank exchanged a curious glance.

Back inside the office, Snowdon and the Hardys examined the mess, being sure not to touch anything.

On a shelf, Frank saw a framed photo of a man seated at a desk. He was blond and balding, with a small upturned nose and a friendly smile.

“That's Mr. Gill,” Snowdon said.

“Do you know what was in here?” Joe asked, standing over a filing cabinet that had been completely emptied.

“That's where Mr. Gill kept all the insurance policies,” Snowdon said. “I think—” Snowdon stopped midsentence. He reached down and picked up a small oblong object from the floor.

“Don't touch anything,” Frank reminded him.

“It's just . . . my pocketknife,” Snowdon replied, showing him the ivory-cased blade. “I must have dropped it.”

“This looks like a break-in. We'd better contact the local police,” Frank suggested.

“Hold it!” a voice behind them shouted.

Snowdon and the Hardys turned to find themselves facing a man in a white barber's jacket. The man stood in the doorway, holding a gun belt in one hand and a revolver in the other.

“You make one move, and I'll shoot you where you stand!” he commanded.

“Sheriff San Dimas?” Snowdon said. “It's me, Snowdon Parlette. Andrew Parlette's son.”

“What are you doing in Toby's office?” the man in the barber's jacket asked.

“I came in to fill out some claim forms,” Snowdon explained. “Dad's out of town, and our farm got hit hard by the twister that just came through.”

“It looks like all the insurance files are missing,” Frank said.

“Who are you?” the sheriff asked.

“Frank Hardy. And this is my brother, Joe,” Frank replied.

“They're friends with Mr. Jansen and his group, Sheriff,” Snowdon added.

“Buenos días.
I'm Carlos San Dimas,” the
sheriff said with a nod. “Old Mr. Wilkie came in here to see Toby a few minutes ago,” San Dimas explained, lowering his revolver. “He fetched me from the barbershop. Said Toby Gill's place had been ransacked.”

“I'm confused, Mr. San Dimas,” Joe said. “Are you a barber or the sheriff?”

“Both,” San Dimas replied, putting his revolver back in the holster of the gun belt. “Lone Wolf doesn't have enough crime or enough money to hire a full-time sheriff. So when I'm not fighting crime, I'm cutting hair.”

San Dimas walked over to the open filing cabinet. “Did you boys touch anything?”

“No, sir,” Frank said. “Our dad is a retired detective, so we're pretty familiar with police procedure.”

San Dimas nodded with satisfaction. “And you saw no sign of Toby?” he asked.

The boys shook their heads.

“When's the last time anyone's seen Mr. Gill?” Joe wondered.

“I saw Toby opening up his office at six this morning. He smiled and waved at me,” San Dimas replied, kneeling beside the phone.

“The phone was off the hook when we got here,” Joe told him.

The sheriff picked up the receiver with a clean handkerchief and hung it up. The loud, piercing beep was silenced. “Anything else you can tell me?”

“No,” Snowdon replied quickly.

“Actually, yes. There's one thing,” Joe said, correcting him. “In the alley, I saw a man in a green station wagon drive away the second he saw me.”

“A green station wagon?” San Dimas repeated, turning to look Snowdon in the eye. “Did he have long black hair? An older man?”

Snowdon didn't answer, so Frank spoke up. “Yes, sir. But Snowdon said it wasn't Toby Gill.”

“No, it was Henry Low River,” San Dimas told them. “He's a woodcarver. Lives in Tahlequah, a town in the Cherokee Nation.”

“So?” Snowdon said, bristling. “He was driving down the alley. What does that mean?”

“It means I'd like to talk to him about Toby's disappearance,” San Dimas replied.

“Disappearance?” Snowdon shot back. “Who's to say that Mr. Gill didn't have to leave to take care of some emergency?”

“Look at this ransacked office, Snowdon,” San Dimas replied. “Henry Low River has held a grudge against Toby for more than a year. He's threatened him repeatedly.”

“Henry's threats were just a lot of talk,” Snowdon insisted. “He would never harm anyone.”

“Mr. Low River is a strange character. I'm not so convinced he's harmless,” San Dimas replied. “Now, unless you have any more information to
give me, I'm going to ask you boys to leave the premises. I'm declaring this office a possible crime scene.”

After giving the sheriff information on where they could be reached, Frank, Joe, and Snowdon climbed into the truck and headed back toward the Parlette farm.

“Looks like our friendly visit may be turning into a criminal investigation,” Joe said to his brother.

Snowdon stayed silent, his mouth tight. Frank could see something was bothering him. “What exactly was Henry Low River's grudge against Toby Gill?” he asked.

“Ten years ago, when Mr. Low River was living in Texas, he got a phone call from a man who called himself Todd Allan Miller. He said he wanted to build an art gallery in town to display all of Mr. Low River's wood sculptures. Miller sent him all kinds of official documents and blueprints. There were even real estate signs set out on the lot where the gallery was supposed to be built. My grand—” Snowdon suddenly stopped speaking.

“Mr. Low River was tricked into sending the man his life savings to help pay for the construction,” Snowdon continued. “Once Miller cashed Mr. Low River's check, no one ever heard from him again. The real estate signs were phony, and the official documents turned out to be forged and worthless.”

“But what does that have to do with Toby Gill?” Joe asked.

“When Mr. Low River first met Gill in Lone Wolf, he was convinced
he
was Todd Allan Miller,” Snowdon replied. “He's threatened Gill in public, saying he was going to get justice one way or another.”

“Why doesn't anyone believe Low River?” Frank wondered.

“Mr. Low River never saw this Miller guy in person,” Snowdon explained. “Everything was done by mail or over the telephone. But he says he recognizes Gill's voice.”

“Maybe we should check up on Toby Gill's background,” Frank said, pushing in the clutch and waggling the stick shift, trying to find third gear on the rickety old truck.

“Sheriff San Dimas checked,” Snowdon responded. “Toby Gill's been an insurance broker for twenty years. His reputation is spotless. And he was living in Missouri until a few years ago, so he can't be Todd Allan Miller.”

“Low River had a motive for trashing Gill's office today—revenge—even if it was misguided,” Joe pointed out. “And he is the only one we saw at the scene.”

“It wasn't Henry Low River!” Snowdon snapped, raising his voice.

“How can you be so sure?” Joe asked.

“Because Henry Low River is my grandfather?” Snowdon said.

Joe stared, dumbstruck, at the blond-haired, blue-eyed farmer. “I never would have guessed you were Native American.”

“Only one-quarter,” Snowdon replied. “When I was growing up, my parents seldom talked about our Cherokee heritage. I guess I still feel a little funny about it.”

“Why?” Joe asked.

“There's still a lot of prejudice, even today,” Snowdon explained. “Grandpa Henry and I hardly ever see each other. He lives in the Cherokee Nation, and, well . . .” Snowdon trailed off, looking out the window.

“Anything wrong?” Frank asked.

“If something bad
has
happened to Toby Gill,” Snowdon replied, “everyone in town's going to
think my grandfather is responsible. I'm pretty near dead sure he isn't responsible. I just hope I can prove it.”

“We'd be glad to help,” Joe offered. “We can follow a trail of clues as well as Bullet can follow a scent.”

“And our hearing is a whole lot better,” Frank joked, but Snowdon didn't laugh. “Even if your grandfather didn't harm Gill,” Frank continued, “maybe he knows something about what happened to him.”

Snowdon was silent for a moment. “Here's the car repair shop,” he said to Frank, who pulled in front of the garage and parked.

“We need to hook up with Phil in Tulip,” Joe said, “but maybe we can meet later and help you find your grandfather.”

Snowdon looked away from the Hardys. “Between the farm and my truck, I have too many other things to worry about. Thanks for the ride.” Snowdon got out of the truck and walked into the garage of the repair shop.

“Snowdon's been a little jumpy ever since we walked into Gill's insurance office,” Frank noted.

“Especially after he saw his grandfather's station wagon pull away,” Joe said. “There's more to this than we know.”

“Maybe we can stop by and talk with Snowdon later, see if he'll open up,” Frank said, putting the Blue Bomber in gear.

The rain had stopped, but Joe noticed that the
closer they got to Tulip, the darker and more gigantic the storm clouds grew. They were still three miles away from Tulip when Joe spotted the Windstormers' red bus and a dozen other vehicles, including a van from a local TV station. A growing crowd of onlookers surrounded the remains of a two-story wood-frame home.

“Turn here,” Joe told his brother, spotting the long, unpaved red clay road that led to the ranch house.

“Check that out,” Frank said, pointing to two cars beside the road. One had been flipped over on its side. The other had its front grille smashed in.

“There's Phil,” Joe said as their pickup drew closer to the destroyed home.

Frank stopped near Phil, who was standing behind Mr. Jansen. The bearded scientist was kneeling beside a fallen tree, making notes. “Hi, Phil. Hey, Mr. Jansen!” Frank called out the window. “Are the people who were in those wrecked cars okay?”

“They're okay. Just some bumps and bruises,” Jansen replied, not looking up from his work. “But it wasn't the tornado that did that. Those were two joyriders who tried to follow us here.” Frank heard both anger and concern in Jansen's voice. The scientist shook his head. “I can't figure it out.”

“I guess some people are just careless,” Frank replied.

“No, I mean the debris pattern,” Jansen said. “I can't figure it out.”

Frank surveyed the area. Roof shingles, splintered furniture, broken glass, and hunks of plaster were strewn around all sides of the home. Only one of four walls remained standing. Water dripped from some twisted pipes, which Frank guessed had been attached to a bathtub on the second floor. On the land surrounding the house, half a dozen trees were uprooted.

With his newfound knowledge of twisters, Frank was able to make out the path the tornado had taken. “The debris pattern isn't to the left of the tornado's path,” Frank noted.

“Correct,” Jansen replied. “It's harum-scarum. Thrown about in every direction. I haven't seen anything like this since five years ago in New Mexico.”

“The mystery twister?” Joe asked.

“The mystery twister,” Jansen said, nodding.

“And Frank and I missed it,” Joe said, frowning slightly to his brother.

“Apparently, we
all
missed it,” Jansen told them. “No one besides the owner was in the area, and he was locked down in his storm shelter.”

An attractive blond woman in a stylish blue business suit rushed over, followed by a cameraman toting a remote unit on his shoulder. “Mr. Jansen!” the woman shouted.

“Reporters,” Jansen muttered. “Somehow they got here before we did.”

“I'm Terry Clark, Channel Nine News,” the newswoman said quickly, thrusting a microphone in Jansen's face. “Could you explain what happened here this afternoon?”

Jansen sighed wearily. “I'll tell you what I can, but then I have to get back to work.”

Terry positioned Jansen so that the remains of the house were in the background, then began the interview. The boys stepped away from the camera to speak privately.

“Tornadoes in the Northern Hemisphere always move counterclockwise,” Phil told his friends. “Mr. Jansen's theory is that some force of nature makes this particular kind of whirlwind change the direction of its rotation. But without an eyewitness, it's just guesswork.”

“Sounds like the mystery twister is going to stay a mystery,” Joe said.

“Even stranger,” Phil said quietly. “Something jammed our Doppler radar so that we never got a read on this tornado. There's no data we can use to study it.”

Joe saw a very tall, broad, balding man in a white linen suit step out of the rubble of the destroyed home. “Is that the owner?” he asked Phil.

Phil shook his head. “No. That's Alvin Bixby. He's an insurance salesman.”

“I'm the owner,” someone behind Joe said. Joe turned as a lean, lanky man in his forties with a lined, suntanned face and a worn Stetson hat
stepped up and offered his hand to shake. “Hal Kanner's the name. I don't recognize you boys. Are you reporters or something?”

“No, they're friends of mine visiting from New York,” Phil explained. “I'm an intern with Mr. Jansen's team.”

“I see,” Kanner replied.

Joe noticed Kanner was holding a ceramic piece of some kind. “What's that?”

“That's all that's left of a priceless Ming vase I had in my house,” Kanner said grimly, holding up the broken porcelain piece.

“I'm sorry,” Joe said, noticing the intricate design on the shard of pottery.