The Clue at Black Creek Farm (Nancy Drew Diaries #9)(22)

Jack shook his head. “No, no. I didn’t say that,” he said. Then he turned to me, his eyes calculating. “It’s just—Nancy is young. If she was scared, maybe she imagined some things she didn’t really see.”

I don’t have time for this, I thought with irritation. “You think I made up the shots?”

“Jack!” This time his wife yelled at him. “Don’t be—”

But Julie was cut off by the screen door banging open, and George and Bess piling into the kitchen in their pajamas.

“Nancy, are you okay?” Bess asked, moving to the table with wide eyes. “Sam told us . . .”

“I’m fine,” I said, standing. “Are you?”

George nodded, stepping up to the table beside Bess. “We’re fine,” she said. “It sounds like we slept through all the excitement. Sam just came and woke us and explained what was going on.”

Sam stood at the doorway now, rifle still in hand. He waved. “I’m going to take a look around,” he called to Abby. “Just to make sure there’s nothing out here.”

“Be careful!” Abby called to him. “Maybe you should let the police handle it. . . .”

But Sam gave her a dismissive wave of the hand. “This is my farm. I can protect it.” And he disappeared from the doorway. A few seconds later we heard him clambering down off the back porch.

Abby gestured for Bess and George to sit down. “Can I get you some tea?”

“Oh, that would be great, thanks,” Bess said with an enthusiastic nod. George agreed too, and they both took seats.

“Nancy,” said Julie gently, “are you going to sit back down?”

I realized awkwardly that I was staring. Right at the blood on Jack’s sleeve. A nosebleed? The blood was bright red and fresh. Was he saying he’d been woken up by the chickens, got up, got a nosebleed, cleaned it up, and then came downstairs?

I tore my gaze away and turned to Abby. “The thing is, I have kind of a headache.”

Abby turned from the stove to shoot me a sympathetic look. “Poor dear,” she murmured. “The stress, probably.”

“Maybe,” I said. “Do you have any aspirin, or anything I could take? Maybe that would help.”

Abby nodded. “Of course!” She put the kettle back down on the stove and turned to walk toward the foyer. “It’s up in—”

“Oh, that’s okay!” I scrambled from the table toward the foyer. “I can get it. I need to use the bathroom anyway. Where did you say it was?”

Abby gave me directions to the upstairs bathroom, and I forced myself to file them away for future reference. Jack and Julie had fallen into a quiet side conversation, and Bess and George were watching me with mild curiosity.

“Poor Nancy,” Bess said in a tsk, tsk kind of voice. “She gets headaches all the time when she’s worried. You should see her during final exams!”

Don’t oversell it. I shot her a look. “I’ll be right back!”

And I scampered up the stairs to the second floor, leaving everyone to their tea.

The bathroom was exactly where Abby said it would be, second door on the left. But I walked right by, peering into the other rooms. I found what I was looking for at the end of the hall. A smaller bedroom, too neat and uncluttered to be the master suite, containing two suitcases and an array of personal items. This must be Jack and Julie’s room.

I crept into the bedroom. One of the suitcases was set up near the doorway, and I flipped idly through it, finding only maternity clothes. Julie. I dropped the clothing and crept farther into the room, spotting the other suitcase on the other side of the bed. I walked over to it, crouched, and began sorting through the clothes.

Button-downs and jeans. Sweaters. Socks and underwear. No black hoodies, no more bloodstains. I stood up and looking around the room. On the dresser sat a laptop computer, open. I walked over and glanced down, pleased to see a PROPERTY OF JACK HEYWORTH label with a cell phone number on the keyboard. As I tapped the keys to wake up the screen, I felt a little flash of guilt. What if Jack isn’t responsible for the sabotage? I’d be spying on his e-mails and Internet history for no reason.

But what choice do I have?

None, I realized. Given what was at stake, I had to take a look.

Then a terrible thought occurred to me: I don’t have my memory stick. I always carried a portable flash drive on my key chain. If I’d had it, I could have copied all the files on a computer or e-mail account onto it, then reviewed them later. But my memory stick was sitting in the tent out in the fields, along with all my other belongings.

I sighed. I’m going to have to just look quickly and try to get through as much as I can before someone finds me up here. Biting my lip with determination, I clicked on the e-mail program and brought up the most recently used e-mail account, whose password the computer was thankfully programmed to remember: [email protected]. I went into the sent folder and, not even bothering to open the messages, forwarded all the e-mails for the last three weeks to my own e-mail account. Then I deleted those messages from the sent folder so Jack wouldn’t see what I’d done.

I glanced at the clock: 5:53. Had I come up here at 5:40 or 5:50? I couldn’t remember. Just keep looking; I don’t hear anyone. I clicked on the Internet browser and went right to the “history” folder. Nothing immediately jumped out as unusual . . . the Chicago Tribune, NPR, eBay, Google. I followed the link to Google and typed “how to” in the text bar, to see whether any recent searches came up. Nothing. Then I tried “where to get” and waited for the site to fill in the missing words. New text flashed up, and when I read it, my heart nearly stopped.