Terror at High Tide by Franklin W. Dixon Page B

there. If there’s still no news, I’m notifying the police.” She thought for a moment. “Let’s stop at the inn and I’ll pick up my moped. Then you guys can borrow my Jeep to check out Jonah and join me at home later.”
    â€œGood thinking,” Joe said. “Let’s get moving.”
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    Back at the Island News Callie introduced Frank and Joe to Jonah Ferrier’s secretary, a gray-haired woman with a loud, confident manner. “I’m absolutely certain Jonah had lunch at the Jared Coffin House this afternoon,” she told them. “It’s the hotel a few blocks away. Jonah eats in the taproom there every Saturday with Katie Hall, the publisher of the Island News. You can always call the maître d’ if you don’t believe me.”
    â€œWhy would he have driven there if it’s only a few blocks from here?” Frank asked her.
    The secretary frowned. “He sometimes delivers copy to Katie, who doesn’t always come in on Saturday. And he gives her stacks of books and magazines to read for the weekend.”
    â€œDo you know where Mr. Ferrier bought his dune buggy?” Joe asked. “It’s got an unusual design on the hood.”
    â€œYes, it certainly does,” she agreed. “I’ve seen one or two others on the island, but not many. There’s a dealer named Freddie Applegate who lives near the airport. He paints Nantucket themes, like whales and lobsters, on motorcycles and dune buggies. That’s where Jonah bought his.”
    Callie and the Hardys thanked her, then headed downstairs to use Callie’s phone. Once he got there, Frank punched in the number of the Jared Coffin House. After a few questions to the maître d’, Frank hung up. “Ferrier’s there, all right,” he told them with a shrug. “He’s been chowing down for the past two hours.”
    â€œSee?” Callie said triumphantly. “There’s no way Mr. Ferrier could have sabotaged the stair. I knew he was in the clear.”
    â€œUnless he had an accomplice who borrowed the buggy for a few minutes just to lure us to the mill,” Frank pointed out.
    Callie rolled her eyes. “Frank Hardy, will you never give up?”
    â€œNope,” Frank said, grinning. “Not until weknow for sure what’s going on. Come on, let’s head over to Alicia’s.”
    â€œI’d also like to track down Harrison Cartwright,” Joe said. “We should find out what he and Mr. Geovanis were arguing about last night.”
    â€œYou guys go on,” Callie said. “I’ve got to stay here and finish my work for the afternoon.”
    After Frank and Joe said goodbye to Callie, they hopped into Alicia’s Jeep and headed off toward her house.
    On the way through town, Joe took a quick detour and steered the Jeep by the Jared Coffin House. Ferrier’s dune buggy was parked outside, with a stack of magazines in the backseat.
    â€œHmm,” Joe said. “Ferrier’s off the hook for the moment, I guess.”
    â€œUnless you go for my accomplice idea,” Frank reminded him.
    As Frank and Joe talked, Frank realized that their list of clues and suspects was growing shorter. Roberto Scarlatti was still the most likely suspect, but why would he wreck his own museum? This case needs a break bad, Frank thought.
    Ten minutes out of town the houses thinned out and grassy dunes spilled down to the ocean. Joe pulled the Jeep into a sandy driveway at the end of a long row of bushes, then headed through a clump of woods before arriving at Geovanis’s house.
    â€œWhere’s Alicia?” Frank asked, staring at theempty driveway. “Her moped’s not here, and we made definite plans to meet.”
    â€œMaybe she’s at the police station,” Joe said. “She told us she’d go there if there weren’t any messages at the house.” He