Chapter 3: Kidnapped!

Oklahoma City wasn’t very far from Norman—far enough, though, that walking or even biking weren’t good enough to get you there.  The Andersons needed a car, and unfortunately for them, their parents weren’t around.  Mr. Anderson was in Oklahoma City (where he served on the police force), and Mrs. Anderson had gone to the mall to do some shopping.  Ashley’s parents were similarly occupied, and with Stephanie missing, none of the parties present had a driver’s license.

Fortunately, the Andersons had a good friend who did: Zach Green.  Four years older than Frank, Zach had met the Andersons in Gainesville, Texas, when the family had travelled down there to see a car show.  Not long afterwards, his car had been stolen, and the Andersons had helped him get it back.[1]  Since then, they always had a ride when they needed one—a pretty nice ride, at that!

“What car are we supposed to be looking for again?” Ashley asked, staring out the window.

“A 1957 Chevrolet Bel Air,” Frank said.  “Classic red and white paint scheme, spotless chrome—”

“If you see a red ‘50’s car that looks like it could be in a show, that’ll be him,” Nancy explained to her friend.

Ashley whistled.  “That’s a pretty nice ride!”

“That’s why it got stolen,” Nancy said.  “Crooks aren’t interested in clunkers.”

“Actually, they often are,” replied Frank.  “A lot of stolen cars are broken up and sold as parts.  It makes them very difficult to trace—impossible to spot.  The most commonplace car can be a prime target, because you can use the parts in so many vehicles.  In Zach’s case, though, the thieves were after something a little more catchy.”

It took the Andersons’ friend less than ten minutes to get to Ashley’s house, where he was happy to give the kids a ride.  Had his car been forty years newer or so, Ashley and the four Andersons never would have fit in it with him.  Since it was from the fifties, though, the front seat ran all the way across the cab, enabling three (including the driver) to sit up front.  Six was crowded, but it was acceptable, and the group was soon headed towards the Interstate.

“Where do I go?” Zach asked.  “I hope someone knows how to get there.”

“Just take 35 to 235, then get off at Exit 1E,” Frank told his friend.  “I can take you the rest of the way from there—blindfolded.”

“Blindfolded?” Ashley laughed.  “I doubt that—”

“You’d be surprised,” Nancy said.  “Frank and Louis have been to that store a lot.”

“It’s not the one we usually go to—just ‘cause it’s further away,” Frank observed, “but we’ve been there a lot, and we’ve met the owner at shows before as well.  He’s a great guy—can tell you anything about the Texas Rangers.”

“Anything?” said Ashley.  “Like, who was their backup catcher was the first time they went to the playoffs?”

“Dave Valle,” Frank said, “but yes, he’d know that.”

Ashley was stunned.  “Are you making that up?”

“Frank’s a baseball expert,” Nancy remarked.  “He knows those things.”

“So does she,” Frank said, modestly.  “If you ever want to know the name of a minor league baseball stadium, just ask Nancy.”

“They were just talking about the Rangers on the way over here,” Zach said, switching on the radio.  “I’m glad 1340’s an AM station, because this radio was built before FM was a thing.”

“Oh, cool!”  Ashley sat up in the backseat and stared at the radio dial.  “I can’t wait to hear it.”

“Oh, noooooo!” screamed a voice that was practically higher than Susan’s.  The Andersons let out a collective groan, even as Ashley glanced around.

“What—” she started to say, but the radio soon answered the question.

“Hello, everyone!  This is Bob from Bob’s Auto Sales, and I have toooooooo many cars!  I’m overswamped with inventory, which means, I have to cut my prices!  That means—”

“That means we have to hear you run your mouth off again and wonder just what happened to your voice,” Frank muttered, prompting a laugh from Ashley.

“It sounds like he took helium before he made the commercial!” she chortled.  “Is that what his voice sounds like in real life?”

“I don’t know,” Frank said, “but it’s exactly what you hear in all the commercials—and there are a lot of them.”

“Mom turns the radio off every time they come on,” Nancy said.  “I don’t blame her.”

“He must do well,” Zach commented, “to be able to afford all his advertisements.”

“Maybe so,” said Frank, “but that voice—that horrible, squeaky-sounding voice—it’s enough to drive somebody mad!  Can you imagine being locked in a room by yourself, having to listen to that whine for hours on end—”

“Ugh, don’t ask me that,” Nancy said.  “It’s too horrible to imagine.”

“I guess they’d annoy me if I heard them all the time, too,” Ashley said.  “We listen to a lot of stations online, though.  It’s kind of a hobby.  I like finding music stations in obscure parts of the country and listening to them.”

“Like where?” Frank asked.

“Oh, any state that doesn’t get mentioned much.  I’ve listened to Delaware stations, Rhode Island networks, New Hampshire, Wyoming, Idaho...”

Traffic was never bad driving from Norman to Oklahoma City, and in just a half hour, Zach was heading down the block the store was on.  It was right in the middle of the downtown, on the first floor of a multi-story office building (not one of the skyscrapers, but still a good size).  A parallel space was available out front, but Zach stopped next to it, making no attempt to go in.

“I’m pretty sure you have to pay for parking here,” he said.  “Tell you what.  Why don’t I drop you off, and then I’ll go around the block a few times.  When you’re ready, just wait out front, and I’ll come pick you up.  Sounds good?”

“Great idea, Zach,” Frank said.  “I don’t think this will take very long.  Louis and I didn’t come here to shop—”

“You’ll probably buy something anyway, though,” Nancy said.  “I know you!”

Laughing, Ashley shoved the backdoor open, even as Frank pushed open the one in front.  The five kids got out, then waved goodbye to Zach, whose 1957 Chevy sped gently up the block.  Frank watched it go, a dreamy expression on his face.

“I’d love to own a car like that, someday,” he said.

“I wouldn’t,” said Ashley.

“Why not?” Frank asked.

Ashley just smiled.  “No need to wait for someday—have you ever seen the inside of our garage?” she asked.  “No?  Well—oh, come on, let’s find out what the letter was about.”  And with that, they wandered into the store.

It was a pretty good-sized location, about as large as a regular-sized store at a mall, though thankfully not full of clothes.  Oh, no.  There were—well, there were a few clothes in the building, but mostly jerseys—Texas Ranger jerseys, Dallas Cowboy jerseys, Oklahoma City Thunder jerseys, and a few others from local colleges.  Most of the area, though, was filled with boxes.  Rowed boxes, packed end to end with cards, all sorted in different ways.  Here by the door, there was a box of Major League Baseball superstar cards—Trout, Bryant, Stanton, and other great current players could be found here.  Over there was a box with NFL quarterbacks—Rodgers and Brady were locked in a display case, but Joe Flacco, Eli Manning, Drew Brees—even no-names like Blaine Gabbert and Robert Griffin, III—these could be found in here.  Along one wall, the hockey boxes.  Along another wall, the basketball boxes.  At the edge of an aisle, Topps baseball cards from the 1970s.

It was a little haphazard, but the owner, Johnny Nichols, could tell you exactly where everything was.  Like a lot of baseball fans, he had an incredible memory.  This extended from his inventory to the game itself, to faces, and to whatever other facts he happened to stumble across.  He could easily be recognized by his athletic 6’4” frame, his booming voice, and his echoing laugh which echoed around the walls of his shop frequently—but not too often.

“Hi, Frank!” he called, upon seeing one of his favorite customers.  “Who was the only player to be the last batter in the World Series twice?”

Ah, a formidable question.  It was hard enough to get to the World Series once, let alone twice.  The answer obviously was someone who’d been a lot, presumably a New York Yankee—but Frank didn’t have to guess.

“Edgar Renteria,” he said.  “1997 when he had the game-winning hit for the Florida Marlins, and 2004 when he made the last out for the St. Louis Cardinals.”

That booming laugh filled the room.  “Right again—that’s your sixth time in a row.  Here,” and he pulled a box of the latest Topps set out from behind the counter.  “Pick any pack you’d like.”

“Aw, thanks, Mr. Nichols,” Frank said.

“See, I told you he’d buy something,” Nancy said.

“I’m not buying it; it’s a gift,” Frank said.

Mr. Nichols grinned at Ashley, who he’d never seen before.  “Want your chance at a Scoreboard Stumper?” he said.

“Maybe later,” Ashley said.  “Actually, we came in here today to ask you a question”

“Me?” said Nichols.  “Ah, it takes a pretty tough one to knock me off the plate—unless it’s a hockey one.  I’m not too good at hockey ones—except for records.  Then, I just say Wayne Gretzky, and I’m usually right.”

“He holds every record,” laughed Frank.  “This isn’t a sports one, but you’ll get it.  Did someone come in here and leave something for a friend of Brittany McPherson’s?”

The grin faded on Nichols’ face.  “Brittany McPherson?” he said.  “You know her?”

“Not personally,” said Ashley, “but my sister, Stephanie Dale, is pen pals with her—”

“Go ahead, show him the letter,” Frank instructed.  Nodding, Ashley pulled the paper out of her pocket and handed it to the card store owner.  He read it quickly, brow furrowing as he looked.

“Doggone it, there was something up with that girl.  Do you know if she’s alright?”

Ashley shook her head.  “Like I said, we’ve never met her, but my sister disappeared last night—”

“Disappeared?  Then this must be serious!”  Nichols bent down and again reached under the counter.  This time, he pulled out not a box, but a padded bubble mailer envelope, which he slid across to Ashley.

“She came running in here two days ago.  It was raining, and I remember she looked like she was going to fall when she came through the door.  She swung it shut behind her, then glanced out the window, like she was worried about someone following her.

“Then, she hustled up to my counter.  ‘Please, mister,’ she said.  ‘Could you take care of this envelope for me?’

“‘What’s in it?’ I asked.

“She shook her head.  ‘I can’t tell you that, and I’ll probably be back to pick them up.  If someone comes in and tells you they’re a friend of Brittany McPherson, though, please give it to them.’

“‘Are you in trouble?’ I asked her.  She glanced at the window, then shook her head.

“‘Not now, and I won’t be if you’ll watch this package.  If I can’t trust you with it, though, I don’t know who else I can give it to.  Promise me you’ll watch it—and don’t worry, it’s nothing illegal.’

“There was something sincere about that last part, so I told her I’d do as she asked.  Her shoulders fell as if she’d relaxed, she promptly left the store, and that was the last I saw of her.  Nothing happened the next couple of days, and I told myself it must just be some sort of game.  If only I realized something had been going on—oh, I feel terrible about not saying anything.”

“So far as we know, nothing’s happened to her,” Frank reassured the owner.  He’d noticed an interesting detail about Mr. Nelson’s story which he wanted to ask about.  “Did she actually tell you she was Brittany McPherson?  You just said she was leaving it for a friend of Brittany’s.”

“Yes, you’re right.  Come to think of it, I don’t think she ever actually said she was…”

“What’d she look like, then?” Frank pulled out his notebook and prepared to write down a description.

“Well, she looked to be about seventeen.  Shoulder-length brown hair, freckled face…”

Frank wrote furiously as he heard the description.  He was paying a lot of attention—much more than Nancy.  She’d been browsing through the display cases, and one of the items had caught her eye.

It was a card with a picture of a Chicago Cubs hitter batting right-handed. The lower-left corner of the card featured a circular head shot of the player, and a rectangular blue border ran around the batting picture, curving up in a semicircle to get over the head shot.  The bottom of the head shot border was purple, and it thickened out at the bottom of the card to contain four white letters: CUBS.  In blue above was the name of the player.

“Ryne Sandberg’s rookie card!” Nancy exclaimed.  “Dad’s favorite player growing up!”

It was indeed.  All Cubs fans had rooted for the tremendous second baseman, whose hitting had been some of the best by any player at the position.  This 1983 Topps card was the first one that had ever been made of him, which made it more expensive than his average card.  Mr. Anderson didn’t own it, and Nancy realized it would make a great gift for her father.  Pulling back from the case, she wandered over to where Frank and Ashley were talking to the owner.

She hadn’t noticed a man behind her rummaging through boxes of cards.  His eyes weren’t on the cards, though—he kept sneaking glances at the kids in the store.  She didn’t see any of that, nor did she care when he wandered out the door.  After all, she’d never seen him before, so she had no reason to—

“Let’s see what’s inside,” Frank said, pulling over the envelope.  As he did so, he noticed that the tape wasn’t on very strongly, as if it had been hastily applied.  Even so, some of the plastic on the mailer tore away as he opened the lid.  Reaching in, his hands closed around a cold, metal object.

“Felt like an oversized printing plate to me,” Mr. Nichols said.  “The kind that might have been used on those Turkey Red cards from the 1800s.”

“It’s a plate alright,” said Frank, pulling it out, “but not a card plate.  A license plate!”

The other stared curiously at it.  There was nothing particularly unusual about this plate, considering the area they were in.  It was the old standard Oklahoma plate—Oklahoma was written at the top in red letters, a picture of an Indian took up the left seventh of the plate, and Native America was written along the bottom.

“212 HRS,” Frank read.  “Ever heard that number before?”

Ashley shook her head.  “You think it’s Brittany’s plate?”

“No idea,” Frank told her, “but it could be.”  He looked up at Mr. Nichols.  “You’ve got a good memory—ever seen that girl before?”

“Pretty sure I haven’t,” Nichols said, “but I don’t work every day of the week.  She might’ve been here before on one of my off days.”

“I don’t know,” said Frank.  “If it’s Brittany, she’d be from Blackwell—”

“That town up by Ponca City?” Nichols said.  “I was there once—went to go see the baseball stadium.  A team called the Blackwell Maroons played there in the 1950s—they were part of the—”

“Kansas, Oklahoma, and Missouri League, or the K-O-M for short,” Nancy finished.

Mr. Nichols stared at her, then reached under the counter and pulled out the box of packs.  “Your turn, Miss Anderson,” he said, holding it out.  “Not many people can get the name of the Class D Leagues.”

“Not many leagues had Oklahoma in the name,” Nancy said, taking her pack.  “Know anyone in Blackwell?”

“I don’t think so,” said Mr. Nichols, “though that name does have a familiar ring to it—you know, I think a family from there came in my shop once.  Husband and wife, and their daughter—it wasn’t this girl, though.  The one I saw was too young.  I can’t remember their names.”

“Probably not important,” said Frank.  “Well, thanks for holding onto the envelope.  We’ll show this to the police, and if it’s anything significant, then we’ll have them get in touch with you.”

“Sounds good,” said Nichols.  “I hope they find your sister soon,” he told Ashley, handing her the plate.  “If anyone in my family disappeared, I’d be angry about that.”

Ashley nodded.  “Thanks,” she said.

Before they left, of course, Nancy payed for the Sandberg card and put it in her bag.  She, Frank, and Ashley walked over to the window, where they found Louis and Susan making up stories about the cars going by on the street.  “Alright, come along, you two,” Frank told them.  “Zach will be back any minute.”

“Just was,” Louis said, as they walked outside.  “He literally drove by a second before you got to the door.”

“Oh.  Well, we’ll have to wait then,” Frank said.  “Ah, well.  Shouldn’t be too long.”

“Weather’s nice,” said Nancy, looking up at the sky.  “Not a cloud anywhere to block out the sun—”

The shadow that fell across her face wasn’t from condensing water droplets.  It was that of a man, and as she looked up, Nancy saw it was the guy who’d been behind her in the store.  He wasn’t alone, either.  Another man was with him, and there was something about the two that looked tough—other than the guns in their hands.

“That alley,” the first one said.  “Now, or we shoot.  All of you.”

---

[1] As detailed in The Secret of the Stolen Hot Rod, Book 13 in this series.

Chapter 2: A Mysterious Letter

The only thing worse than losing a toy car is losing your older sister—well, actually, that’s not quite true.  If you never had an older sister to begin with, then losing the car is worse—unless you never had a toy car to begin with either, but those are far more common than older sisters.  Anyway, whatever thoughts Frank might have had about the car jump were replaced with the more dramatic news—Stephanie Dale had disappeared.

“What happened?” Frank asked.

Nancy shrugged.  “They don’t seem to know very much about it.  Ashley said that her sister left the house around seven o’clock last night, without telling anyone where she was going.  She was driving her car—that Mercury Grand Marquis you’ve seen in the church parking lot before.  Anyway, she never came back, and there’s been no sign of the car.”

“Oh,” said Frank.  “Interesting.  Do they think she could have been in an accident?”

Nancy shook her head.  “I asked.  The police haven’t gotten any reports of any crash victims who remotely fit her description—and that’s all over the state of Oklahoma.”

“Did she have a cellphone with her?” Frank asked.

“She did,” said Nancy, “but it’s not the kind you can track, and she hasn’t made any calls with it.”

The Dales had been some of the Andersons’ original friends in Norman when they’d moved there from Chicago two years before.  Both families went to Northgate Baptist Church, the stone building at the intersection of Tecumseh and Porter (not to be confused with Calvary Free Will Baptist, the steel building next door).  Any visitor was ensured to run into a Dale at some point—the family was huge.  Ashley (12) was the one closest to Frank and Nancy’s age—she only had one older sibling, but there were five younger ones—Carl, Melissa, Caitlyn, Ron, and Lorraine.  They lived (with their parents, of course) in a fairly good-sized home kind of in the center of Norman, in a neighborhood north of Main Street and still east of the Interstate.  They were well aware of the Andersons’ penchant for solving mysteries, but never before had they required their friends’ services.  After all, you only need a detective when you have a problem.  Unfortunately, the Dales now had a problem.

“That’s too bad,” Frank chewed his lip.  “Stephanie’s a nice girl.  It’d be a shame if anything happened to her.”

“Ever since she got her license, they’ve been inviting us over more and more,” Nancy recollected.  “Goodness knows how many times we’ve ridden in that car.”

“My nickel’s still stuck in it,” observed Louis.  “I dropped it one day, and it got stuck in a crack between the seat and the door.  I haven’t had a chance to get it back yet.”

“That lost nickel’s not going to solve our problem,” Frank said.  “Does her family have any idea where she might have gone?”

Nancy shook her head.  “She wasn’t spending the night with anyone—they know that much.”

“Any ransom demands?”

“I doubt it,” said Nancy.  “Even if there was one, and they told them to keep it quiet, Ashley didn’t sound like she’d heard about one when she called.”

“She might cover it up,” said Frank, “but if there’d been one, she probably wouldn’t even bother to tell us her sister was missing—not without mentioning it.  The next step is to search her room.  Did she say it was alright if we came over?”

“Of course,” said Nancy.  “That’s why she called.”

“Alright, then,” said Frank.  “Louis, help me put our ramps and stuff away.  Then, we’re going to find out exactly what happened to Stephanie Dale.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“You can always tell which house is theirs,” Nancy said, as they approached.  “Just take a look at the chimney.”

The Dales’ house was on the corner of Sherry Avenue and Crestmont Street.  It had tan brick on the front of the first story, white sidings on the sides and on the short second story in the center of the house.  Blue shutters overlooked a freshly-mowed lawn that featured a well-kept garden with a large cactus growing in it.  A long bay window was on the right of the first story, and a two-car garage stood on the second, but all you really needed to look for if you wanted to find the house was the cross on the chimney.  Someone had put it up some years ago—two planks nailed together, the long one about as tall as a window and the short one about as wide as a street sign.  Originally, the cross had been white, but time and the elements had truly made this into the subject of a famous George Bennard song.[1]

“I like it,” said Frank, surveying the front of the yard.  “Mr. Dale’s truck is still here,” he said, pointing to the Nissan Titan in the driveway.  “I guess the van and the SUV are in the garage.”

“There ought to be a Mercury in the driveway too,” Louis noted, sadly.  “Look.  You can see the oil stains from it on the cement.”

“Those might be from the van,” Nancy pointed out.  “That thing’s got to be at least thirty years old.  Who wants to ring the doorbell?”

“I will!” Susan volunteered, but her offer was unnecessary.  The door swung open just as the Andersons reached it—Ashley had been waiting for them.

“Oh, I’m so glad you came!” she said, her normally placid face now tense with worry.  She was about Nancy’s height, with hair the same color as her sister’s, but straight instead of curly.  That little smile that practically always hung around her mouth was nowhere to be seen.

“Of course we did,” Frank said.  “Stephanie’s our friend, and we want to get her back as much as you.  Mind if we take a look around?”

“Please, go ahead.”  Ashley motioned for them to come in, then led the way upstairs.  “The police just left,” she said.  “So far, they don’t have any clues.”

“It certainly is strange,” said Frank.  “At least, one thing’s in your favor.  Your sister doesn’t have any enemies.”

Ashley nodded her agreement.  “She hadn’t done anything lately that would have created one.  Something must have happened, though, or she would have come back.”

Because the first floor of the house was larger than the second, the master bedroom was downstairs.  However, the other bedrooms were all on the upper story.  There were only two—one belonged to Stephanie and Ashley, and the other belonged to Carl and Ron.  The rest of the girls slept in the hallway, which had a bunk bed and a crib tucked against the wall, out of the way of where people had to walk.  Melissa and Caitlyn were busy playing a game of indoor hopscotch as the visitors walked past.  Nancy couldn’t help but smile at the set up.

“Once they get older, it’ll be harder to stuff them in here,” she said.

“What?  Oh, the hallway?  They’re usually pretty good about it.  It’s just that, every so often, they’ll play a board game in the middle of it and set up so that we have to jump over them if we want to get up or down the stairs.  I can remember one time when Carl tried to jump them, went too far, and plunged headfirst down the whole stairwell.  He—after that—well, let’s just say they didn’t set up right there again.”

“I see,” said Frank.  By now, they’d entered the bedroom.  It was a decent-sized room, long across, with a double window across from the door.  The window faced the front of the house, and the room in between was divided on two sides.  From the door, Stephanie had the right side of the room, and Ashley had the left.  This was easily deduced from the large, glittery letters which ran across the walls at the top—Stephanie was spelled out in blue, and Ashley was spelled out in red.

“No mistaking whose side is whose,” Nancy remarked.

“Mom did that for us once we started sharing the room,” Ashley said.  “Those names have been there for years.”

“Since you share a room with her,” said Frank, “you’re probably the one who could tell us the most about what happened.  Did you notice anything unusual about Stephanie at any time before she went missing?”

Ashley thought about this.  “Yesterday, she did seem a little preoccupied about something.  I’m not sure what, though.”

“Any ideas?” Nancy asked.

Ashley shook her head.  “She didn’t have any problems that I knew about.  Her car was running great, her grades are fine, she hadn’t had any doctor’s appointments lately—”

“Did she have a medical condition, or something?” Frank asked.

“Oh, no, nothing like that.  I just meant that she wouldn’t have been worried about health problems due to a doctor’s visit.”

“Oh, I see,” said Frank.  He glanced around the room.  “Anything missing that’s supposed to be here?  Besides your sister, I mean.”

Ashley looked over the right side of the room.  “Her keys aren’t here, of course—nor is her jacket—but I hadn’t noticed anything else missing.”

“I guess that means we’ve got our work cut out for us,” said Frank.  He glanced at the side of the room, then at his siblings.

“We’ll divide it up,” he said.  “Louis, you search the left corner.  Susan, you search the right.  I’ll take the right side of the desk, and Nancy can take the left.  Sounds clear?”

Everyone nodded, and the detectives got to work.  Stephanie’s side featured a lofted bed in the center, under which was her desk.  To the right of the bed (nearest the door) was a short bookcase—to the left, a dresser.  There weren’t that many books on the shelf, and Susan had no trouble going through them.

“Ooh, a bookmark!” she said, pulling out a piece of cardboard with quotes from George Washington on it.

“Let me see that,” Frank said, examining it.  “Nothing written on it—anything notable about its location in the book?”  He glanced quickly at the book, but it was just an M.T. Anderson story, and the bookmark was at one of the chapters, where whoever had been reading it had stopped.

“Probably not a clue,” said Frank, “but we’ll leave it in place just in case.”  He closed the book and put it back on the shelf, his hands making a soft squeak as they came away from the slick, library book jacket.

Louis was busy going through the dresser.  “Hmm, that’s strange,” he said, pulling something out of the second drawer.  “This jacket looks a little too small for Stephanie.  Plus, would she really have one with a fire engine on—”

“Oh, I’ll take that,” said Ashley, snatching it away.  “Carl and my sister have this little game going on.  One of them will hide some article of clothing that belongs to the other one, and they’ll see how long it takes the other person to notice.  It goes back and forth between them.  Every now and then, I get caught up in the mix, and it’s usually right when I need that scarf, or that hat, or—”

“Let me see it for a second,” Frank asked.  Quickly, he searched the pockets, then inspected the rest of it for rips.  “No, it’s clean.”

Ashley regarded him with a curious expression as she took it back.  “You really take this detective stuff seriously.”

“That’s why you called us, right?” Frank observed.  “You never know where something important might be hidden.  That notepad, for instance.”  He picked a small pad of paper off the desk.  “Could you hand me a pencil, Nancy?”

His sister took a break from going through the drawers to pass him one.  “Writing a note?”

“Reading one,” Frank said, carefully running the point over the sheet of paper.  It was an old trick, but a useful one.  The graphite would stick to the whole paper, except for the indentations where a pencil had written—

Ashley glanced at him, then shook her head.  “Sorry, Frank.  Stephanie only writes notes in marker.  Dull-tipped marker.”

“Oh, drats,” said Frank, noticing the Crayola marker next to the desk.  “It’s like she was trying not to leave a message.”

Nancy was struggling with a drawer towards the bottom of the desk, twice as large as the others.  “It’s locked.”

“Oh, I can open that,” said Ashley, hurrying across to her side of the room.  She yanked a key out of her desk, then handed it to Nancy.  “It’s a cheap lock—these keys work on both.”

Opening the drawer, Nancy found it to be full of file folders.  She flipped quickly through them, seeing that many of the front ones contained schoolwork (grammar, history, etc.).  The back ones, though—

“Ashley?” Nancy asked.  “Do you know who all these names belong to?”

“Names?”  Ashley peeked over her friends shoulder.  “Oh, those.  They’re my sister’s pen pals.”

“Pen pals?” said Frank.  “Then she writes letters a lot?”

“Heavens, yes,” said Ashley.

“International?” Louis asked.

“A couple are,” said Ashley.  “The rest are just friend from the U.S. who don’t live close by.”

Nancy started flipping through these.  “Judy Garner—”

“Used to go to Northgate, moved a year before you came here.  Now, she lives in Montana—Billings, I think.”

“Ariane Montieux—”

“That’s one of the international ones.  Lives in France.  I think Stephanie met her on a missions’ trip.”

“Brittany McPherson—”

“Friend of hers from horseriding camp.  Lives in Blackwell.”

“Emily Simms—”

“Another friend from the horseriding camp.  She lives in Wapanucka.”

“And Elena Popescu—”

“Now, she’s an interesting one,” said Ashley.  “My parents met her family on a different missions trip, this one to Romania.  It was about eight years ago, and she was just about to be born, but the doctors could tell she had a lot of health problems.  They were going to kill her before she ever got a chance to live, because they said she’d never be able to have a normal life.  My parents found out about it, and so we helped her family escape.”

“Oh, my goodness!” said Nancy.  “That sounds exciting!”

“Do you remember anything about it?” Frank asked.

“A little bit,” replied Ashley.  “I was only five, but I do remember a bit about a train—I think they were hiding them in a coffin, or—oh, it’s all a blur.”

“She got out fine, then?” Nancy asked.

“Not only that,” said Ashley, “but now she can do everything a normal kid can, except walk.  She’s thrilled to be alive, and outraged that anyone would’ve wanted it any different.”

“What a wonderful story,” said Frank.

“Do you suppose your sister’s disappearance might have anything to do with that?” Louis asked.  “Revenge from somebody, or something?”

Ashley started to reply, but Frank shook his head.  “That was eight years ago, Louis.  It’s entirely possible, but not very likely.  I’d say we only investigate that if we’re getting stuck.  This early in the case, there are still plenty of possibilities open.”

“Maybe there’s a clue in the letters,” Nancy suggested.  “If you’re writing a pen pal, you’d probably mention anything important that was going on in your life.  I know these are letters to her, not from her, but someone might have said something that would give us a clue.”

“That’s a good thought, Nancy,” Frank agreed.  “Is it alright if we search through these, Ashley?”

The Dale girl looked embarrassed.  “Well, technically they’re not mine, but my sister is missing—I think in this case, it’d be alright.”

“Fine,” said Frank.  “Nancy, you help me look through them.  Louis and Susan, you keep searching.”

Susan groaned.  “Why can’t I read them?”

“Because you’ll tell everybody you meet what they said,” Nancy remarked.  “You’re not any good at keeping secrets, Susan.”

Susan stomped her foot indignantly.  “I am too!  I never told you that we’re getting Books 51-56 of the Bobbsey Twins series for Christmas—”

Frank laughed.  “Susan, you just did!”

“Wait, really?” Nancy looked surprised.  Her sister looked embarrassed.  In spite of her situation, Ashley couldn’t help laughing.

“Don’t feel too bad, Susan.  Things never stay secret for very long in this house.  There’s always someone listening in.”

“I don’t know,” Frank remarked.  “I’ve known Stephanie for quite a while, and if there’s a person that would be good at keeping secrets, it’s her.  She—oh, well.  Let’s take a look through these letters.”

Have you ever searched through letters to somebody?  It was really quite fascinating.  All the writers were different from each other, yet the letters from each individual one were quite similar to each other.  Brittany always wrote five paragraphs—Elena, just a short scrawl that wasn’t even indented.  Emily and Ariane used yellow notebook paper, Brittany used white, and Elena used just unlined paper (Judy rarely used the same kind twice).  Emily and Elena used pencil—the rest, pen.  The handwriting varied quite dramatically—Ariane’s was super easy to read, while Brittany’s was a close-packed, hastily written scrawl that took significantly more time.  And those weren’t all the details the detectives noticed.

“What are you doing with that letter?” Nancy asked her brother accusingly, as he picked up one off Judy’s stack.

“Interesting,” he said, pulling it away from his face.  “Paper smells a bit sweet, like it was under a perfume bottle or something.  Matter of fact—” he took a few more whiffs—“they all smell like that.”

Louis laughed.  “It’s the clue that’ll solve the case.”

“More than likely, it means nothing,” said Frank.  “Just an interesting observation.”

Even had all the letters been typed on the same quality paper, written at exactly the same length, and formatted exactly the same way, it still would’ve been possible to tell they were by different authors.  Ariane always responded point by point to everything her friend had mentioned in the previous letter, as was evident by certain phrases—“that sounds fun…you also mentioned…in your last letter, you said you had been planning to; thank you for telling me about it…”  Emily’s letters, on the other hand, never appeared to be responses—they were all about the various things Emily was doing.  Elena mentioned her family frequently—Judy, almost never…

“Does Judy get along with her family okay?” Frank asked.  Ashley looked surprised.

“Oh, they get along great,” she said.  “She always seems really happy when she’s with them.  I know Stephanie’s been over to her house several times.”

“I see,” said Frank.  Her answer didn’t surprise him.  Just because Judy got along with her family didn’t mean she had to mention them.

“Oh, cool!” Nancy remarked.  “Emily’s in Civil Air Patrol.”

“You ought to join,” said Frank.  “I’m sure you’ve landed more than she has.”

“Aren’t you a riot?”  Nancy didn’t like to be reminded of the time she’d had to bring down a pilotless Cessna by herself.[2]

“Judy plays softball,” Frank remarked.  “Third base, but they just moved her to catcher—now, that’s going to sting a little bit.  All those foul balls bouncing off her…”

“She was always into sports,” said Ashley.

“So, you know Judy pretty well, and Elena a little bit,” said Nancy.  “What about the others?”

Ashley shook her head.  “Never met them.  All I know is what Stephanie’s told me about them.  If one passed me on the street, I couldn’t tell you who it was.”

“I see,” said Frank.  Finishing with Elena’s letters, he picked up Brittany’s stack.  Nancy glanced over.

“Aw, I was going to read those next!” she said.  “I’m just about done with my second stack.”

“Let’s split them,” said Frank.  “You take the top ones; I’ll take the bottom ones.”  He cut the stack, then handed them to her.

Brittany’s seemed more helpful than some (say, Emily’s) had been.  While she didn’t reference everything Stephanie had written, she did mention a lot of things.  Like the others, her writing had definite tendencies.

“She seems to have been under a lot of stress,” Nancy said, at one point.  “She keeps hinting that there was some problem going on at home.”

“Really?” said Frank.  “These all seem pretty upbeat!”  He glanced at his sister.  “When were those written?”

She glanced through the stack.  “A few months ago.”

“Hmm,” said Frank.  “The ones written more recently don’t seem that way at all.  I wonder…”  he thought a moment, then glanced out the window.

“What?” Ashley asked.

Frank shook his head.  “It doesn’t have anything to do with this case.  Nancy, what are the dates on yours?”

“Hmm?”  Nancy looked at her letters.  “January 4, January 18, February 2—”

“Mine are a lot closer together,” said Frank.  “It looks like for the last few months, she’s written one about every six days—sometimes five or seven, like she writes back immediately after she gets one.”

“Stephanie was usually pretty prompt with her responses,” Ashley remarked.

“The most recent one of these was three weeks ago, though,” said Frank, “and—let me see something.”  He glanced at the most recent letter in all the other stacks.  “Yes, these are all more recent.  Judy, Ariane, Elena, and Emily have all written in the past week.  Brittany hasn’t in two weeks.  Now, I wonder why that is?”

“You think something happened to her?” Nancy said.

Frank shook his head.  “Not necessarily, but maybe Stephanie had those letters with her when she disappeared.  And if so, there might’ve been a clue in them.”

“Then it would involve Brittany,” said Nancy.  “If only we had those letters.”

“Well, they might be somewhere else in the room,” Frank pointed out.  “If not, though, we can always contact Brittany ourselves and find out what she wrote—as well as what Stephanie wrote her.  If those did have anything to do with the disappearance, then Brittany might know something—”

Ding-dong!

“Oh, that’s the doorbell!” Ashley exclaimed.  Rushing to the window, she glanced out.  “Mailman—thought so.  Be right back.”

“We’ll come along too,” Frank said.  “Don’t have anything better to do.”

The five kids rushed down the stairs—joined by Carl, Melissa, and Ron, who never missed an opportunity to rush anywhere.  Thus, there was quite a crowd waiting for the mailman when Ashley opened the door.  He looked relieved, though—relieved that he’d finally be able to put down the large, unusual-looking box clenched between his arms.  “Package for Jim Dale?”

“That’s my father,” said Ashley.  “I’ll take that.”

“Let me help,” said Frank.  He and Nancy both helped her place the large, heavy box on the ground.  It was a cylindrical package in a way, only there were three small, long cylinders sticking out on the top of it.  The side of the box read “Imaginations Unlocked.”

“What is it, anyway?” Nancy asked.  “Some sort of weight-lifting system?”

“I guess you could use it for that,” Ashley remarked.  “It’s a telescope.”

The mailman whistled.  “Gotta be as heavy as that one they got orbiting the earth—the Wibble, or whatever it’s called.[3]  Well, here’s the rest of your mail.  Good thing your friends don’t send you heavy letters.  Be seeing you!”

“Have a nice day,” Ashley waved after him.  Holding the letters, she began to casually flip through them, organizing the ones for her father and mother.  Then, her hand stopped, and she stared at one of the envelopes.

“Hey, guys!” she said.  “Check out the return address on this one!”

The Andersons crowded in for a look, all glancing over Ashley’s shoulders (except Susan, who wasn’t quite tall enough).  “Where’s it from?” she asked.  “I want to see.”

“Blackwell, Oklahoma,” Frank answered for her.  “Brittany McPherson.  Wonder what she has to say.”

Grabbing the letter, he quickly tore it open.  Louis made a face.

“Frank, you do realize you’re committing a federal offense—”

“Guilty as charged,” Frank admitted.  “Go ahead and arrest me if you want—well, I’ll be!”

“What?” Ashley asked.

“What’s the letter say?” Nancy said.

Frank held it away from him.  “Read it for yourselves!”

Curiously, the other four glanced at the lines.

Dear Stephanie,

I don’t have much time to write, but I fear I may be in danger.  Remember what I told you in my last letter?  Well, I think I found out what happened, but now [erasure mark]

If anything happens to me, go to “Johnny’s Sports Cards and Collectibles” at 117 Park Avenue, Oklahoma City, Oklahoma 73102.  Tell the owner you’re a friend of mine.  Hopefully, you’ll

That was the weird ending to the letter.  There was still plenty of room on the paper, and there was no sign that anything had been erased at the end, yet the handwriting was the same as that on the envelope.  Combined with the letter’s subject, the ending was quite unsettling, indeed.

“If something happens to Brittany,” Nancy said.  “What in the world is that about?”

“Got any ideas, Ashley?” Frank asked.

  The Dale girl shook her head.  “I hadn’t heard anything about this!”

“Well, then,” said Frank.  “I guess we know our next move.  I don’t know if anything’s happened to Brittany or not, but something’s sure happened to Stephanie, and whatever’s at that store is most likely a clue.  We’re off to Oklahoma City!”

---

[1] You may not have heard of George Bennard, but you’ve probably heard The Old, Rugged Cross at some point in your life.

[2] Detailed in Book 17 of this series, The Secret of the Hidden Skull!

[3] Actually the Hubble Space Telescope.