The Chase for the Mystery Twister by Franklin W. Dixon Page A

looking for a Mr. Low River. He’s a sculptor,” Joe told him.
    â€œI know him,” the boy said. “Go down five blocks to Red Rock and take a left.”
    â€œWhat’s the address?” Joe asked.
    â€œI don’t know, but you can’t miss it,” the boy replied, grinning.
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    When Phil came to a stop in front of Henry Low River’s house on Red Rock Road, Joe understood why the young boy had been grinning. The front yard was filled with animals in every size, shape, and species imaginable, all carved in wood.
    â€œThere’s the sheriff’s car,” Phil said, nodding to the squad car parked in the street.
    â€œAnd that’s the green station wagon we saw this morning,” Joe added, pointing to an open garage.
    Joe noticed the faint smell of hickory smoke in the air. As he and Phil walked past an eight-foot-high grizzly bear and a life-size moose, metalchimes hanging on the eaves of the house clanged softly in the breeze.
    The place looked dark inside, but Joe knocked anyway. “No answer,” he said after a moment.
    â€œI guess we should leave, then.” Phil rubbed his arms as if he were cold, even though it was warm out. Joe could tell his friend was nervous.
    â€œI would hate to have to go in uninvited,” Joe said, eyes scanning the area for a possible way inside.
    â€œMe, too. It’s called breaking and entering, Joe,” Phil said.
    Joe tried the front door. The knob turned. “It’s unlocked,” he whispered.
    â€œGreat. The sheriff might reduce the charge to trespassing, then,” Phil said.
    Joe knew Phil was right. “Good call, Phil. There’s no reason for us to break the law.”
    â€œWhy don’t we ask the neighbors?” Phil suggested. “Maybe they know where Mr. Low River is.”
    Phil grabbed a flashlight from the truck, and they walked through Low River’s side yard. Joe spotted Snowdon’s pickup truck parked behind the neighboring house. “Check it out, Phil,” Joe said quietly to his friend.
    Phil clicked off his flashlight and pulled Joe down with him to a squatting position. They watched from the cover of the tall grass as a figure walked out of a wooded area behind the homes on Red Rock Road. As the man openedthe door to the pickup, the interior light illuminated his face. It was Snowdon.
    â€œWhew!” Phil said as he flipped on the flashlight again.
    â€œSnowdon,” Joe called.
    Snowdon jerked his head around. “Joe? What are you doing here?”
    Joe saw Snowdon quickly toss a crumpled bag on the front seat and close the door. “The sheriff hasn’t been able to reach your grandfather on the phone all day,” Joe said, stretching the truth just a bit. “We thought we might be able to help find him.”
    â€œThanks, Joe. I’m concerned myself,” Snowdon said, looking down at his feet. “I’ve asked all over for him. No one seems to know anything.”
    Joe thought Snowdon seemed nervous. “We were afraid you would be too overwhelmed with your other problems to get out here.”
    â€œOh, yeah, well, a couple of my neighbors are organizing a barnraising for tomorrow,” Snowdon said. “The whole community’s going to pitch in to rebuild our barn in one day.”
    â€œIt doesn’t look like there’ll be any tornadoes to chase,” Phil said, “so you can count us in, too.”
    â€œGood,” Snowdon replied. He shifted on his feet. “Well, it’s late. We’d better all get home and get some sleep.”
    â€œAre you okay, Snowdon?” Joe asked.
    â€œSure!” Snowdon replied, perking up and clappingJoe on the back. When he did, Joe got a whiff of the young farmer’s shirt. It had the strong scent of hickory smoke on it.
    â€œPhil, tell Snowdon about the mystery twister,” Joe suggested. While Phil was talking, Joe slipped around to