Feathering My Brakes

I rode the straight chute back to town, cutting across lawns and through alleys. It was only a few miles that way. I headed for downtown and the finish line, at the intersection of Highland Boulevard and Main Street.

I briefly considered stopping off at home to change clothes, because I didn’t want to attract too much attention to myself. I’ve lived in River Heights all my life, and a lot of people here know me for one reason or another. Even people who didn’t know me would notice someone riding around town in race clothes on race day. I didn’t want anyone to know that I had dropped out of the race—mainly because I didn’t want anyone to know why.

Just then I remembered that Bess had packed my sweater and jeans in the panniers—so I decided to ride over to Dad’s office downtown to freshen up instead of going all the way home.

I biked from the edge of town to Highland Boulevard. My dad’s law office is on Highland. Sometimes it’s open on Saturday, but that day it was closed because of the race, and because Dad was out of town.

I had my own key, of course. I unlocked the back door and took my bike inside. I spent a few minutes washing up. I left my racing clothes on, but pulled my jeans and sweater over them. I was a little warm, but a bit of sweat never hurt anyone.

Grabbing my backpack, I locked up Dad’s office, and left. I walked up Highland to the corner at Main Street. This was not only the start and finish line for Biking for Bucks, it was also where Mr. Holman had shown us the pledge money in the safe.

At first I hung out casually near the minipark, pretending to read the paper in the newsbox, but really watching the activity in front of the bank across the street. A few people walked around, but not many. Most of the shops were closed because of the race. With the streets blocked off, there wasn’t much point in stores being open.

I wanted to check out the area around the start and finish line, but that was impossible. Two uniformed police officers and at least three recognizable detectives in plain clothes were still looking for clues around the makeshift stage and bleachers that had been constructed for the weekend. Clearly, neither the money nor the thief had been found yet.

I crossed the street and walked past the bank. I wasn’t surprised to find that it was closed. It would have been even if there hadn’t been a theft, because it always closes at noon on Saturday, and it was already three o’clock.

No one seemed to recognize me or pay any attention to me. I strolled past the bank and looked in the window. There was a lot of activity inside. Tellers counted money in drawers, and officers questioned security guards. Others just sat, checking papers, which I guessed were probably lists of pledges—pledges of money that had vanished.

In the corner Mr. Holman and Officer Rainey stood on either side of the old-fashioned safe. Its door was open, just like it had been that morning before the race. Except this time the safe was empty.

I walked back to the other side of Main Street and into the minipark. As far as activity was concerned, the park was the exact opposite of the bank. A couple of fat bumblebees lazily nosed their way into some petunias, and a plump red cardinal sat in the middle of a birdbath. He wasn’t even flapping his wings to pretend he was actually bathing. He was just zoned out, tail-deep in the water.

A weathered bench offered a perfect view of the front door of the bank. I really wanted to talk to Officer Rainey, since he was the one who had been watching the money. But how was I going to get to him?

I sat for a while, watching the cardinal sitting like a fat red rock in the birdbath. My mind was busy with images of the safe, of Mr. Holman and Officer Rainey, and of the man in the red shorts.

For a moment I considered going over to police headquarters. My main source there is Chief McGinnis. He isn’t exactly a friend, but he’s more than just an acquaintance. The best word to describe him is colleague. We often find ourselves working on the same case, although we definitely have different methods—and often different results.

As I was debating with myself about the merits of checking in with Chief McGinnis, I was joined on the park bench by a friend.

“Luther!” I greeted him. “Lend me some of your wisdom.”

I’m always happy to spend a few minutes with Luther, because I always learn something when I do. And sometimes I don’t realize I learned anything until later.

“Hello, Nancy,” Luther said with his thin little smile. “Now why am I not surprised to find you down here instead of sprinting around the cycling course?”

“Because you know me so well?” I guessed, smiling. Even though Luther is old enough to be my father, we always treat each other like good friends.

“So tell me,” I continued, “why don’t you seem that surprised to see me out of the race?” I asked.

“Because a major crime’s been committed on the same day,” Luther replied, his blue eyes shining.

“You’ve heard about the stolen pledge money,” I said, nodding.

“I have, and I figured I’d find you down here where the action is. And besides, it’s a nice day to be in the park.”

“Well, it seemed like the right place to be—but now I’m not so sure. I want to talk to Ralph Holman or the security officer who was guarding the pledges this morning. But it looks as if the police have them tied up inside the bank.”

“Not literally, I hope!” Luther said with another smile.

I couldn’t help but smile back. “They might as well be. They’re standing guard over an empty safe.”

“You know... ,” Luther began.

I love it when he begins a sentence with “You know,” because it’s usually something I don’t know at all.

“You know,” he repeated, “this whole theft reminds me of the original River Heights Heist.”

I know the legend of course. Everyone who lives here has heard it a million times. But Luther’s definitely the expert on this town and knows all the little sidebars that haven’t necessarily made the history books.

“You know about the Rackham Gang of course,” he said.

“Before the settlement even had a name”—I paraphrased the brochure from the River Heights Welcome Board—“a steamer arrived with a big load of cash to exchange for Mahoney anvils. But the word got out, and the Rackham Gang stole the money.”

“You get an A-plus for common knowledge,” Luther said. “Now tell me some of the not-so-common facts.”

“Okay, let’s see. I remember you showing me exactly where the original heist took place,” I said. It had been pretty exciting, actually. I could almost feel the history of the place come alive as he described the legendary theft. It was as if River Heights had its own pirate tale.

“What else,” I said. “Oh, yeah—when Lucia Gonsalvo found that gold coin last year and thought it was from a sunken treasure ship, you identified it as part of the Rackham Gang loot.”

“Very good,” Luther said.

“So what am I missing?” I asked. “Why are we talking about the Rackham Gang?”

“Well, as I said, it seems to me that the theft that took place across the street this morning is like the one by the Rackham Gang a century ago.”

“How so?”

“The Rackhams seemed to disappear into thin air. They were spotted before the heist, but nobody saw them in town after the theft.”

“You told me they escaped on the Muskoka. They had a boat waiting downstream.”

“That’s right,” Luther said. “The sheriff staked out the river, but unless you plant someone every couple of yards or so, there’s no way to cover every possible place to cast off a boat—especially at night. The Rackham Gang hid out until after dark. Then they escaped down the Muskoka with the loot.”

“Are you saying you think today’s thief escaped the same way?”

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” Luther said, patting my shoulder as he stood. “You’re a clever one.”

As I watched Luther walk down the path, the bright red cardinal shook off his soggy feathers and flew away. I watched the bird until it vanished in the afternoon sunlight, and I thought about my conversation with Luther.

Suddenly I flashed back on the scene at the starting line that morning, when a stranger in shorts the color of a cardinal’s feathers seemed to vanish into thin air.

“I’ve got to talk to that security man,” I told myself. “He saw Red Shorts too—in fact, he warned him away from the safe. He must have put him on an interrogation list.”

I went back across the street to the bank and peeked through the window again. The activity inside had dulled some, and the empty safe stood unguarded. Most of the people were gone. I couldn’t see either Ralph Holman or Officer Rainey.

I walked casually back around to Highland Boulevard and down to the alley that ran along the back of the bank. A couple of police cars blocked the opposite ends of the alley. One unmarked black car was parked halfway between, near the bank’s back door.

I didn’t see any people in the alley, but I expected that someone would be guarding the bank’s back door. I hoped it was one of the River Heights policemen that I knew—someone who would answer my questions about the theft. I’ve worked with a few of the officers in town on past cases—strictly unofficially, of course. I really hoped it would be Chief McGinnis.

I sidled past the car that blocked the entrance to the alley. It was four thirty, and the bank building blocked the direct sun. The alley was a patchwork quilt of wavy dashes of bright reflected light and blotchy panther black shadows.

As I moved from the heat of the sun, a chill rippled across my shoulders. No one stood outside the bank door. I placed my ear against the cool metal door, but I couldn’t hear anything from the other side.

The door had no knob or lever. A swipe card slot was embedded in the wall next to it. That meant that employees were given magnetized identification cards.

I reached up and gave the door just the slightest push with my fingertips. My breath stuck in my throat as the door slowly moved forward—and a voice shouted behind me.

“Nancy Drew!”

Date: 2016-03-03; view: 589