The Clue at Black Creek Farm (Nancy Drew Diaries #9)(6)

I looked from George’s and Bess’s eager faces (I’ll get you two for this later, I thought) to the skeptical face of Holly, to the open, hopeful faces of Sam and Abby. Seeing the farmers’ expressions, I sighed. I can’t turn them down, I thought. But also, my heart was pounding at the thought of these nice people being potentially tricked. And if someone is setting them up, I thought, I can’t let that crook get away.

Bess had been right. The need for justice was in my blood.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll do whatever I can.”



An hour later Bess, George, and Lori were heading home, Holly and Abby had made their way to the hospital to check on Julie (who was now resting comfortably, per a call from Jack), and I was walking out with Sam as Ned went to get the car.

Sam’s phone pinged and he pulled it out, checking a text and sighing deeply. “This is a disaster,” he said. “Until we get to the bottom of what’s going on with our vegetables, we have to put all sales and CSA orders on hold. That’s thousands of dollars. This could sink us.”

I frowned sympathetically. “That’s awful. I hope Ned’s friend can help us figure out what’s on the vegetables.” Ned’s a student at River Heights University, and he’d offered to take some samples of the food Julie had eaten back to the campus with him. He had a biology major friend, Rashid, who might be able to test them for contaminants. “How do you think the E. coli, or whatever it is, is getting on your vegetables?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Sam said. “That’s the honest truth.”

I tilted my head. “How does it normally happen? Like when there’s an outbreak, and produce is recalled?”

“Well, it’s usually on a big factory farm, and what they typically find is that it was transferred by contaminated farming or processing equipment,” Sam explained. “You know, it gets on a tractor or a picker. Then it gets on all the veggies. But we don’t use any fancy tools at Black Creek. Unless these count.” He held up his hands.

I nodded. “Could someone be transferring it? Someone doesn’t wash their hands before picking the vegetables, and . . .”

“It’s possible, but not very likely,” Sam said. “The thing is, E. coli comes from inside a cow. Literally, from inside their digestive system. It’s not the sort of thing you might just be walking around with on your hands.”

I tapped my chin, thinking. I was stumped. “Do you fertilize your crops with cow manure?” I asked.

Sam shook his head. “Nope. We only use plant-based fertilizers.”

I heard something behind me and turned to find Ned pulling up in the car.

Sam glanced at Ned and held up his hand in a small wave. “Listen, we really appreciate your looking into this, Nancy. You’ve gone above and beyond already, staying this late, getting your boyfriend to bring the samples to his friend. Go home and get some sleep. Maybe we can talk later.”

I was still thinking, trying to reason out how an animal-based virus had gotten itself onto Black Creek Farm’s organic produce. “Can I come take a look at the farm?” I asked.

Sam’s eyes lit up. “Of course you can!” he said happily. “I’d love to show you around. I’m proud of what we’re doing there.”

I smiled. “Great,” I said. “I’ll call you and set up a time.” I reached into my pocket and fingered the business card Sam had given me earlier. BLACK CREEK FARM—WE RAISE HAPPY FRUITS AND VEGETABLES!

Sam reached out and clasped my shoulder. “Thank you, Nancy,” he said passionately. “I can’t tell you how much this means to me. This farm, this CSA—it’s my dream.” He paused, clearing his throat. “And this is my last chance to save it.”

I gently put my hand on top of his. “I’ll do everything I can,” I said. “You have my word. If someone is sabotaging Black Creek Farm, we’ll get to the bottom of it.”





CHAPTER THREE





Occam’s Razor


NED RAISED HIS HANDS TO his face, pretending to blush as he opened the door to his dorm room to find me.

“Oh, gosh!” he said. “A visit from my always-busy girlfriend. Did you come to help me study for midterms? Maybe you brought me some chocolate-chip cookies to fuel my late nights?” He batted his eyelashes goofily.

I shoved him. “You know why I’m here,” I chided. “And sadly, no, I didn’t bake any chocolate-chip cookies.”

Ned made a horrified face. “I didn’t mean you had baked them,” he teased. “I wouldn’t want you to burn your house down. I meant maybe you’d brought over some that Hannah made.”

I groaned. “Just for that, I’m not giving you these oatmeal raisin cookies from Hannah! I’m going to eat them all myself!” I held up the plastic bag containing five cookies, which my dad’s and my longtime housekeeper and cook had insisted I bring over to Ned. Hannah was famous (in River Heights, at least) for her oatmeal raisin cookies. She’d once tried to teach me how to make them, and yes, I admit, there had been fire involved.

Ned grabbed the cookies out of my hand and ran over to his desk, tearing the bag open and devouring one. “Uhhhmmmm,” he moaned through a mouthful of crumbs. “Why only five?”