The Clue at Black Creek Farm (Nancy Drew Diaries #9)(21)

Abby drew her lips into a thin line. “I’ll wake up Sam,” she said. “He’ll fetch the hunting rifle and go get them. Try not to worry.”

Try not to worry! Ha! But before I could reply, Abby was already halfway upstairs. I tried again to take deep breaths. You’re okay. Sam’s going to get Bess and George. It’s all okay.

But then I jumped; I could have sworn I heard footsteps downstairs. Is someone else up? I crept to the door of the kitchen and peered into the foyer, but I couldn’t see anything. I nervously crossed the foyer and looked into the living room. Does Bob have a house key? I wondered. And then I remembered the thought I’d had earlier this morning: maybe the culprit is in the house. Realistically, wasn’t it likely that whoever I’d seen by the chicken coop had a personal reason to sabotage the farm? What was more personal than family? I stepped into the darkened living room, lit only by the early dawn light coming through a large bay window. I looked beneath the window and jerked back.

Someone’s on the couch!

But closer inspection revealed that it was only Julie—lying down, asleep.

“What are you doing?”

I jumped again; a male voice, coming from the foyer. I swung around to face Jack, who stood in a pair of striped pajamas, watching me.

“How long have you been standing there?” I asked.

Jack shrugged. “A couple of minutes?” he said, moving into the living room. “Something woke me up. I could have sworn I heard the chickens going crazy, and then—a loud bang.”

“It was shots,” I said, trying to catch my breath. Jack’s voice had startled me. “Someone attacked the chickens in the coop. I caught them, and when they saw me, they chased me across the fields and shot a gun.”

“A gun?” Jack asked, frowning. He crossed his arms in front of his chest. “That seems . . .”

But I’d stopped paying attention to what he was saying. My focus was drawn to the sleeve of his pajama top, which was stained with a few bright-red blobs.

Fresh blood. Whoever had killed the chickens couldn’t have avoided getting some of it on his or her clothing. Maybe Bob wasn’t involved at all. Maybe he was fast asleep in his bed across town, and had been all night.

Maybe I was looking at the chicken killer. And nearly me-killer.

“. . . probably just a car backfiring, don’t you think?” Jack was asking. He stepped forward, his expression cold.

I had no idea what he was talking about. Where are Sam and Abby? I stepped backward, willing Jack’s parents to come down the stairs.

I heard movement behind me. Julie was stirring on the couch, wiggling and rising up on her elbow. “What time is it?” she asked sleepily.

“It’s about five,” Jack replied. “Sorry we woke you. Did you sleep any better down here?”

Julie yawned and nodded, sitting up. “My back was killing me in that bed,” she said, stretching her arms over her head. “This couch is just hard enough to balance me out. Once this baby is born, maybe I’ll sleep again.”

“Oh, sure,” Jack said sarcastically. “Having a newborn baby in the house is great for sleep, I hear.”

There was a clattering on the stairs. Sam stomped down, dressed in a red bathrobe and holding a hunting rifle. His hair stood up in every direction. He looked right at me, concern in his eyes.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

I nodded. “But Bess and George . . .”

Sam nodded quickly and turned toward the kitchen. “I’m going to get them right now. Don’t worry, Nancy. If there’s someone out there, I’ll find them.”

He disappeared into the kitchen, and I heard the screen door slam. Abby descended the stairs, peering in at Jack, Julie, and me.

“What happened?” asked Julie, frowning as she looked from me to Jack and Abby.

Abby sighed. “Why don’t we all come into the kitchen and I’ll make some tea,” she said. “I’m afraid there’s been another . . . incident.”



Abby frowned as she handed Jack his tea. “Is that blood on your sleeve?”

Jack glanced down, and his face darkened for a moment. “Oh, it is. I had a nosebleed earlier. I get them when I’m stressed. Sometimes they can be pretty . . . severe.”

“Well, that must be new. I don’t remember you ever getting them as a kid. But here.” Abby went to the sink and wet a paper towel, then handed it to her son. “Maybe you can get some of it out.”

Jack took the paper towel and scrubbed at his sleeve. “As we were saying,” he said, “that’s quite a story, Nancy.”

I’d given an account of everything I’d seen since I’d heard the commotion in the chicken coop—leaving out a few details, of course, in case they became important later. “I’m not sure what you mean,” I said, sipping my tea.

Jack shrugged. “It’s just—you’re saying someone brought a knife and a gun to harass some chickens?”

“Whoever it was, they weren’t just harassing chickens,” I pointed out. “They were killing them.”

“Oh, right,” Jack scoffed. “Because you need two weapons to kill a couple of hens.”

I raised an eyebrow. “So you don’t believe me?”

Abby gave him a chastising look. “Jack!”