The Clue at Black Creek Farm (Nancy Drew Diaries #9)(8)

Ned sighed. He reached for his soda and took a long sip. “It’s just . . . the guy was a lawyer, and now he’s an expert organic farmer?” he asked. “You know about Occam’s razor, Nance?”

I nodded. Occam’s razor, the principle, actually came up a lot when solving mysteries. “Sure. Occam’s razor says that the simplest solution is most likely the correct one.”

“So isn’t it likely that this guy just screwed up and put something on his plants that he wasn’t supposed to?” he asked. “Cow manure. Some kind of unapproved fertilizer. And the plants got contaminated, and that poor woman got sick. Lucky us, we were warned.” Ned shrugged again. “Isn’t that more likely than some big bad guy sprinkling cow bile on these vegetables to make people sick? To close down a farm? Who would do that?”

“I don’t know,” I said, fishing my phone out of my purse, “but I intend to find out.”

I opened the texting application and typed a quick note to Bess and George: YOU GUYS FREE TO GO TO BLACK CREEK FARM TOMORROW?

Ned glanced at the text and pretended to pout. “You’re going without me?”

I grinned at him. “You have midterms, remember?”

Ned startled like he’d just been reminded he had a midterm right then. His eyes bugged out. “Oh my gosh, you’re right! What am I doing here, out in the world? Why did you drag me out of my study-hole, temptress?”

I laughed. “You needed to eat. If you faint in the middle of your midterm, it doesn’t matter how much you studied.”

Ned nodded, sipping his drink. “Your logic is sound.”

A ping! sounded on my phone, and I looked down to see a text from George: I’M IN! As I typed out a response—GREAT, WILL TXT U DETAILS—Bess responded too: OF COURSE! WHAT TIME?

I fished Sam Heyworth’s business card out of my wallet and dialed the phone number. The phone rang only once before someone picked up.

“Hello?”

It was Abby. And her voice sounded a little tremulous and unsure.

“Hi, Abby? This is Nancy Drew. We met last night?”

“Oh, of course.” Abby’s voice sounded warmer now.

“Listen, I was wondering if I might set up a time tomorrow to come visit the farm with my friends Bess and George. I’d love to have a look around. Sam and I talked about it a bit last night.”

A hollow sigh echoed over the line. “That would be great, Nancy,” Abby replied in a serious tone. “In fact, the sooner the better. Something very strange has happened on the farm . . . something awful.”





CHAPTER FOUR





Lay of the Land


I PULLED INTO THE DRIVEWAY of black Creek Farm the next morning just after ten o’clock, with Bess in the passenger seat. George, who had to work a shift at the Coffee Cabin that afternoon, was right behind us in her own car. We both parked and climbed out, greeted by a soft breeze and gentle birdsong.

“It’s beautiful here,” enthused George, taking in the gentle rolling hills shaded by old oak and pine trees. “I can see why Sam would trade some corporate office for this.”

“Let’s just hope it was the right decision,” said Bess.

I followed, taking some time to soak in all the details of the farm. A circular driveway led to a modest white ranch-style house. Behind the house, I could see what looked like fields of corn, lettuce, and some crops I couldn’t identify, all stretching over gently rolling hills. The fields were dotted with small storage buildings, a barn, and the occasional piece of farming equipment.

George was right: it was beautiful, and the farm looked idyllic in the midmorning sun. You’d never guess the crops were crawling with E. coli, I thought. Or are they? It was also possible, I realized, that the vegetables had been contaminated at the dinner itself and there was nothing strange going on at the farm.

“Nancy?”

I came out of my thoughts to find Bess and George watching me, a smile playing on the edges of Bess’s lips.

“Do you have it all memorized and filed away?” she teased. Bess had tagged along on enough investigations to be well used to my tendency to observe carefully and make note of little details. “Can we knock on the door now?”

“Knock away,” I agreed. We climbed onto the small porch attached to the house, and I raised my fist to knock. Just as my knuckle rapped against the wood, sounds emerged from inside.

“She’s not going to eat that!”

Jack. I recognized the voice immediately. I looked awkwardly at my friends, who were both wearing the same uh-oh expression that I imagined on my own face.

“Overreacting . . . perfectly safe!”

That sounded like Sam.

“Oh great,” Bess murmured, folding her arms. “We’ve arrived right in the middle of a huge family argument. That’s not awkward!”

I lifted a finger to hush her as Jack’s voice—louder than Sam’s—traveled toward us again.

“Don’t you even care about my unborn child? Why risk it?”

I heard the screech of a chair being pushed back quickly, followed by stomping and a female voice making soothing sounds—possibly Julie? I couldn’t be sure. I’d barely heard Jack’s wife speak at the dinner.

George looked at me quizzically. “Are we waiting for this to be over?” she whispered. “Should we come back another time?”