Close Encounters (Nancy Drew (All New) Girl Detective Book 21) (3 page)

“I wish I’d bothered to read the online reports. Maybe I will now.” George walked over to Winnie’s laptop open on the counter. “Can I log on now? My computer’s still back in the car.”

“You can’t. My system keeps crashing. Maybe you can find the problem. Everything’s affected: my e-mail, my address book, my website, and today I couldn’t even access any of my bookkeeping programs.”

George peeled off her down vest. “Maybe it’s a virus. Let me check it out.”

Winnie stopped her. “Not now, George. I’ve got to get into the kitchen and deal with dinner, and you guys must want to settle in after your trip. My friend
Sarah Conway, the owner of Under Mountain Inn, called. She’s holding your room. Given the crush of tourists, you’d better check in now. You’ll like Sarah. She’ll make you feel right at home.”

“Okay,” George said. “I’ll run some diagnostics on your system after dinner, if you feel it can wait. We can catch up on family news then—Mom’s dying to know what’s new with you and the café.”

Under Mountain Inn was all that Winnie had promised, and I was secretly pleased that she had lacked the room to put us up herself.

The three-story white building had several gables with steeply sloped black slate roofs. Green shutters framed the windows. Several hearty souls were parked on wicker benches on the wraparound porch, watching the sun slide down behind the low hills to the west of town. In the fading afternoon light a single electric candle burned in every window, giving the establishment a cozy, welcoming look. An inscription over the front door said the original inn, parts of which were still standing, dated from 1801.

I couldn’t help but think that if the place hadn’t looked so well-kept and freshly painted, it would have been the perfect setting for a ghost story. Old-fashioned and creepy. Instead, though, it was modernized, refreshed—and beautiful.

When we arrived, a woman was on the phone behind the reception desk. While we waited to register, I looked around. The lobby was spacious and welcoming. It flowed into a large, comfortable lounge generously furnished with an assortment of couches and overstuffed easy chairs. A cozy fire burned in the fireplace, and at the far end of the room an archway opened into a dining room.

As soon as she hung up the phone, the woman introduced herself as Sarah Conway, the innkeeper. When we mentioned we were Winnie’s guests, she hurried out from behind the desk and warmly pumped our hands. “Winnie told me all about you girls.” Turning toward George, she said, “I know you from the pictures of you and your mom that Winnie has up in her apartment. One of you is Bess, and the other is Nancy—the amateur detective!” She looked from me to Bess and back at me again. “You’re Nancy, right? And you”—she looked at Bess—“must be Bess.”

“I’m impressed.” I laughed. “How did you know?”

Sarah blushed. “I’ve seen Bess’s picture too—after all, she’s George’s cousin, and there are photos from that family reunion a few years back.”

After calling for someone to cover the desk, Sarah personally escorted us to the third floor. She was open-faced and talkative, and seemed determined to
give us special treatment because we were Winnie’s friends. “I hate putting you all into such cramped quarters,” she apologized as she climbed the stairs ahead of us.

Our room was at one end of the long hall. “At least you get a view of the mountain.” She unlocked the door. “I put you guys in the best room I could spare up here. The other two are rented out to the TV crew. They haven’t got the view.”

True to her word, the room was barely large enough for three twin beds and one rocking chair. A large old-fashioned wardrobe stood next to a dresser. Tieback curtains framed each of the two windows: One provided a view of the mountain, and the other opened onto a fire escape.

“Winnie probably told you about the tourist invasion. Not that anyone in town is complaining,” Sarah told us.

George looked up from rummaging in her duffle bag. “Mom had mentioned that Winnie was having second thoughts about refinancing the café because things were so slow. We were amazed to see everything booming.” While George talked, she stowed her computer and backpack on top of the wardrobe. She deposited her running gear onto the bed. Earlier she had announced we were all in dire need of a good run—particularly after sitting so long all day,
and with the prospect of a gourmet calorie-laden dinner facing us that evening.

While we unpacked, Sarah continued to talk. “The UFO sightings took everyone by surprise. Most tradesmen and merchants are pretty happy about it. It’s hard for the restaurants to handle the crowds, though. Take Winnie’s place, for instance. It’s all too much to deal with on top of her other problems.” Abruptly she stopped and checked her watch. “But don’t get me started about Winnie and her life. Likely you’re more in the know than I am,” she said to George. “I’ve got to get downstairs, pronto. The TV crew pulled in just before you girls. The producer was pretty miffed they couldn’t have the whole place to themselves—offered me good money too, but I’m not going to turn down the few regulars I have this time of year to put those people up! The minute some hot new story breaks, they’ll drop the UFO angle and be gone. Fat lot of good that’ll do me next year.” With that, she hurried out the door.

I waited until I heard her footsteps fade down the hall. “Is Winnie in some kind of trouble?” I asked George.

“Other than slow business, nothing I’ve heard about.” As George changed into her sweats, she added, “Mom would have mentioned anything serious—I
think.” However, George appeared worried as she stuffed her duffle under the bed.

Bess tried to reassure George. “You’re right. If Winnie’s problems were superserious, your mom would have told you.” As she put on a vintage River Heights High letter jacket, she added, “More to the point, Winnie would have asked us to postpone this trip.”

“Bess is right,” I said. “Unless, of course, Winnie never told her something was wrong—or something cropped up after we left.”

“Maybe Mom just didn’t feel free to share all of Winnie’s problems with me,” George said. “Whatever—I’m glad we’re here. Maybe we can help her out.” George put one foot up on the dresser and began doing her pre-workout stretches.

“Good thinking,” I added. “As soon as I’ve worked out and before we come back to change for dinner, I’m going to corner Sarah and find out what she didn’t tell us.”

Bess laughed. “That won’t take much prodding. She looked ready to burst out every detail . . . until she realized how late it was. Which reminds me, we’d better go running now, or we’ll be late for dinner.”

Bess had a point. Frankly, I was ready to skip the run. Sarah’s comments had stirred my curiosity. It
sounded like Winnie was in trouble—and I was confused about why George had had no idea at all.

As we headed out for our run, we saw the inn’s staff gathering luggage from the reception area and carting it upstairs. Members of the
Reel TV
crew—the name was on their jackets and sweatshirts—were sorting shiny metal film canisters and camera equipment. The crew milled around the front desk as Sarah registered the new arrivals.

She waved as we passed. “Have a good run,” she called out. She started to say something else, but a siren’s wail drowned out her next words.

“Sounds like a fire somewhere,” I said, hurrying over toward the porch. The door flew open in my face, and a dark-haired man stepped through the entrance, blocking my exit. He was only a little taller than me.

He swept a shock of straight black hair back from his forehead, and he shouted, “Izzy, they’re back.” Without waiting for a response, he raced back out. I followed him. I watched from the porch steps as he tore over to a white van idling by the curb. He threw open the back doors.

Before I could see what he was unloading, Bess and George hurried out onto the porch. “What’s going on?”

“I’m not sure,” I answered. People were pouring
out of shops, restaurants, and houses, streaming toward the town square. “Maybe there’s a fire somewhere.”

“No,” Sarah cried. “Like he said, they’re back.” She grabbed my arm and half pulled me along with her. “Come on, girls,” she shouted to Bess and George. “If it’s anything like last time, you’ll get a better view from the square.”

The town square was packed, and we were relegated to the back of the crowd. All heads were turned skyward. Sarah pointed toward the east over the mountain. Circles of light revolved slowly against the deepening blue sky. They hung, suspended, over the meadow for a moment. Then they swept the circumference of the field and hovered.

The effect was hypnotic.

“This is totally unreal,” I murmured. It had to be a hoax. Right?

I
n spite of myself
I was spellbound. I gaped as the revolving spheres of light descended in lazy circles over the meadow. Though they were bright, their eerie glow barely lit the ground, and I wondered why.

Whatever those lights were, I could
not
believe they were spaceships. But why didn’t they make any noise? These didn’t look in the least like gliders—how could they fly without engines? There was absolutely no sound, though. The objects floated across the sky in complete silence.

The same silence seemed to have smothered the excited chatter of the crowd. I shifted my gaze away from the sky and glanced around. All eyes were turned up.

The eerie quiet sent a chill up my spine.

Somewhere behind me and to my left, a camera whirred. Someone was filming the event.

As I checked to see who, a gasp went up from the crowd. I quickly looked back up at the sky, just in time to see the flying objects change course. First they spiraled sharply upward, and then, with no warning, they vanished in a blinding flash of light, leaving only the stars and constellations twinkling overhead.

Instantly the spell was broken. The town square erupted in cries and comments and exclamations. Everyone began talking all at once.

“Why are they here?” one voice said.

“No good reason, I’ll tell you that.”

“Don’t jump to conclusions,” someone contradicted. “They’ve been quiet and peaceful. They haven’t threatened us.”

“They will,” another person responded. “They will. And the government knows all about it—why else would the Feds be here?”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Apparently no one doubted the UFOs were real. No one but me, it seemed.

Bess shook my arm. She looked incredulous. “Tell me you saw what I just saw.”

“I saw
something,
” I answered. There had to be some sort of rational explanation for what had just happened over that mountain.

“So I wasn’t imagining things.” Bess dug her fists deep into her jacket.

“If you were, so was everyone else,” George broke in. “Pretty convincing special effects,” she suggested.

“But how?” I asked.

“Beats me,” George said. “At least it’s caught on tape! That guy we saw at the hotel, the one who tipped us off about this, was right behind me. He filmed the whole thing.”

“Oh, right,” Sarah said, shivering in the cold. “That was the cameraman from the
Reel TV
crew. Pretty amazing, those folk turning up just in time for a sighting.”

“They’re staying at your inn, aren’t they?” another woman asked Sarah. Sarah told her yes, most of them. The two women then began discussing the sighting, as the crowd continued to disperse.

Most of the spectators were heading back to cars, or to shops and restaurants. A few groups, including some state troopers, hung back, milling around the square. A couple of patrol cars, lights flashing, sirens blasting, raced down the road leading east. I figured they were going to the area of the sighting. I wished I was going with them. I wanted to take a firsthand look at that meadow, check out the ground for evidence—not that I could see much in the dark. I found it hard to believe these UFOs were real.

Apparently, so did George.

“I wish I had my camera,” George grumbled. “There was something fishy about those UFOs.”

“I didn’t notice anyone taking pictures,” I admitted. “Just that one guy from the TV show. Though I’m sure other people taped the event.” It was hard to imagine tourists without cameras and camcorders.

“Even if people did film the sighting, I wouldn’t have noticed,” Bess said. “I was afraid to look away from the sky in case when I looked back, the UFOs would be gone.”

I had felt something similar—as if I was compelled to look. What troubled me most was their silence. “Did you notice they made no noise?”

“They never do.” A smug voice announced from behind me.

I turned to face a thin bearded man. He was about five-foot-ten and had glasses mended with a piece of adhesive tape across the nosepiece. Decidedly dorky, he was probably twentysomething, but he was already balding, and his circle of stringy blond hair hung down almost to his shoulders. His clothes looked seriously thrift store, but they were clean.

He smiled at me. His straight white teeth were at odds with his wardrobe and his straggly beard. l found his smile unnerving, and his smug tone bordered on offensive.

Before I could say anything, he added, “They are almost always quiet as death. At least in published accounts.”

Bess leapt into the conversation. “You’ve read a lot about UFOs?” she asked. Unlike me, she didn’t seem to be put off by his tone—though I could well imagine what she thought of his taste in clothes.

He gave a tight laugh. “Sure. I write about them too. Is this your first sighting?”

“Yes,” George volunteered, but her cautious expression matched my own. “Not that I’m convinced that what we saw was the real thing.”

“But everyone seemed to have seen it,” Bess broke in.

“Oh, it was real enough,” I said. “The question is, how did they do it?”

“They?”
The bearded man tilted his head and studied me. I admit, I found his scrutiny unsettling. “Exactly who might
‘they’
be?”

“You tell me,” I shot back, then winced at the tone of my own voice. I tried to soften my response. “You’ve seen them before—or at least, I got that impression.”