The Chase for the Mystery Twister (6 page)

They followed the squad car until San Dimas turned onto the road that led to Tahlequah. A few seconds later, Joe recognized Snowdon's pickup as it passed by them. Turning his head, Joe saw the pickup turn onto the same road as San Dimas.

“That was Snowdon,” Joe informed his friends. “Looks like he's headed out to the Cherokee Nation, too. So much for not having time to look for his grandfather.”

“I know you like to be where the action is, Joe,” Frank said.

“Yeah, I do, but what about Hal Kanner?” Joe wondered.

“Drop me off in town,” Frank suggested. “I'll find out what I can about Hal Kanner, while you and Phil see what Snowdon's up to.”

Phil and Joe let Frank off in front of the Prairie Moon Diner in Lone Wolf, then made a U-turn and headed back up the road toward Tahlequah.

The bell on the door jingled as Frank walked into the tiny establishment. The place was almost empty. He didn't see Kanner but was surprised to see someone else. “Diana?”

Diana Lucas, in a pink waitress uniform, smiled when she saw Frank. “Hey, one of the Hardys! Have a seat.”

“I didn't know you—” Frank began.

“Yeah,” Diana broke in. “My uncle owns the place. I moonlight here for extra bucks when he needs me.”

Frank sat in the first booth. “I was looking for Hal Kanner. Do you know him?”

Diana ignored the question and flipped open her order pad. “What can I get you?”

“How about an order of fries and a little information?” Frank replied.

“No problem on the fries,” Diana said, turning away and handing the order to the cook.

“Deputy Klement said he saw Kanner in here,” Frank mentioned.

“Yeah?” Diana answered.

“Is there anything you could tell me about him?” Frank went on. “About his art collection or who his friends are?”

“It's none of my business,” she replied.

“How about less personal information?” Frank said, smiling warmly. “Do you know if he owns a cellular phone or a Mack truck?”

“Listen, Frank, or Joe, or whichever one you are,” Diana said coolly. “I don't talk to strangers, especially when they act real friendly and smile too much.”

With that, Diana walked away and disappeared into the back room. Frank looked after her. He wasn't quite sure what he had done to upset her.

“Don't take it personally,” the cook said. “Her family lost their farm in Iowa because some smooth talker suckered her dad into buying bogus flood insurance. She doesn't trust people much anymore.”

“Thanks,” Frank said.

“I'm Oscar Lucas, Diana's uncle,” the cook said, coming out from behind the counter and shaking Frank's hand. “I own the diner.”

“I'm Frank Hardy,” Frank replied.

“Why do you want to know about Kanner?” Lucas asked.

Frank gave Lucas a brief rundown of the happenings at the Kanner farm. “So there are a lot of questions that need answering.”

“Well, the deputy was right,” Lucas explained. “Kanner was in here tonight, talking to the head of the local bank.”

“What about?” Frank asked.

“Selling his property,” Lucas replied. “Kanner
was so upset about losing his house, he planned to pack up and leave Twister Alley altogether.”

“And the bank's going to buy the property?” Frank asked.

“Kanner was willing to sell it cheap,” Lucas told him as he pulled the basket out of the deep fryer and dumped Frank's fries onto a plate. “If I overheard correctly, he's coming into the bank tomorrow morning to sign over the deed and get his money.”

“Sounds like he's in a hurry to collect and leave,” Frank muttered, half to himself. “Did you see where Mr. Kanner went when he left?”

“Right across the street to the Sandman Motel,” Lucas told him. “You want anything else, Frank?” Lucas asked as he walked toward the front door with his keys. “I'm closing up.”

Frank shook his head and looked up as Diana returned from the back room. “I'm sorry, Frank,” she said in a gentler tone. “I don't know why I got so upset.”

“Probably because I got too nosy,” Frank replied. They both smiled.

“I've locked up the front,” Lucas said. “Hope you don't mind leaving by the back way.”

“Not at all,” Frank said as he followed Diana and her uncle into the back room. Diana was turning off the lights, when Frank noticed a window looking out onto the alley behind Toby Gill's office.

“Can I be nosy just a little bit more?” Frank
asked. “Toby Gill wasn't in his office this morning—”

“Yeah, I saw him leave,” Lucas offered. Frank was struck speechless by the sudden answer. “About nine-thirty Toby loaded three boxes of stuff into the trunk of his car and took off.”

“Wow!” Frank exclaimed. “Then Henry Low River had nothing to do with his disappearance.”

“I wouldn't go so far as to say that,” Lucas said, frowning. “Henry was parked down the alley and started to follow him.”

“You're certain it was Mr. Low River?” Frank asked.

“I had a clear view of his face,” Lucas replied. “He rolled down his window to toss something out.”

“What did he toss out, Uncle Oscar?” Diana asked, getting pulled into the story.

“Some little green box,” Lucas replied. “It should still be there.”

“Would you mind showing me where he threw it?” Frank asked.

Lucas took Frank to the spot. Sure enough, there was a small green box in the gutter.

“Uh-oh,” Frank said as he picked it up.

“Why ‘uh-oh'?” Diana asked. “What is it, Frank?”

Frank looked up at her and her uncle. “It's an empty box of thirty-eight-caliber cartridges.”

Joe and Phil were already in Tahlequah before they realized that they had a problem: They didn't know where they were going. Joe spotted a brightly lit building coming up on the right.

“Stop at this convenience store,” Joe instructed. Phil pulled over, and Joe got out and walked into the store. He immediately felt that all eyes were on him. The clerk and all the customers were Native American.

“Hi! How ya doing?” Joe said cheerfully. “Do any of you know where a wood sculptor named Henry Low River lives?”

After a pause, the clerk replied. “No. Sorry.” The others just continued staring at Joe. He had never felt more like an outsider.

“Thank you anyway,” Joe said with a smile,
then turned and left. He passed a young Native American boy outside who was sitting on his bicycle and munching on a candy bar. Joe was about to get back into the pickup when he changed his mind and walked back.

“Excuse me—could I ask you something?” he asked the boy.

“Sure. What's up?” the boy replied without hesitation.

“I'm looking for a Mr. Low River. He's a sculptor,” Joe told him.

“I know him,” the boy said. “Go down five blocks to Red Rock and take a left.”

“What's the address?” Joe asked.

“I don't know, but you can't miss it,” the boy replied, grinning.

•  •  •

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.

“There's the sheriff's car,” Phil said, nodding to the squad car parked in the street.

“And 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, metal
chimes 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.

“I 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.

“I would hate to have to go in uninvited,” Joe said, eyes scanning the area for a possible way inside.

“Me, too. It's called breaking and entering, Joe,” Phil said.

Joe tried the front door. The knob turned. “It's unlocked,” he whispered.

“Great. 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.”

“Why 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 opened
the door to the pickup, the interior light illuminated his face. It was Snowdon.

“Whew!” Phil said as he flipped on the flashlight again.

“Snowdon,” 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.”

“Thanks, 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.”

“Oh, 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.”

“It doesn't look like there'll be any tornadoes to chase,” Phil said, “so you can count us in, too.”

“Good,” Snowdon replied. He shifted on his feet. “Well, it's late. We'd better all get home and get some sleep.”

“Are you okay, Snowdon?” Joe asked.

“Sure!” Snowdon replied, perking up and clapping
Joe 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.

“Phil, tell Snowdon about the mystery twister,” Joe suggested. While Phil was talking, Joe slipped around to the other side of the pickup, reached through the passenger window, and grabbed the crumpled bag off the seat. As he did, Snowdon opened the door on the driver's side.

“What are you doing, Joe?” Snowdon asked.

“Just checking out your tires,” Joe replied. “They look good as new.”

“They
are
new,” Snowdon said, looking a bit confused.

“Well, then, that's a good thing,” Joe said.

Snowdon smiled. “We'll see you in the morning.”

After Snowdon pulled away, Phil began heading for the Blue Bomber. “Wait a second, Phil,” Joe called after him. Joe looked in the crumpled bag. There was a crumpled root beer can, an apple core, an empty bag of chips, and a crust of bread.

“Well, we know what his eating habits are,” Joe said. He looked toward the grove of trees. “I have a hunch, Phil. Snowdon's hiding something, and I think I know what it is. Come on.”

As Joe and Phil walked toward the grove of trees, the smell of hickory became sharper. At the center of the grove, they came upon on an old wooden shack. “It's a smokehouse,” Joe quietly
told his friend. “And it's my guess that Henry Low River is hiding inside it.”

“Okay,” Phil said. “And I suppose you want to go in and find him?”

Joe smiled and nodded yes. Phil shook his head no. When Joe didn't budge, Phil sighed, then nodded as well. Phil opened the door, and they slipped in. Hams hung from hooks, as did a lit lantern and some sides of bacon. Hickory chips smoldered in a long rectangular barbecue grill that ran along the back wall. But there was no sign of Henry Low River.

“I guess I was wrong,” Joe said. “Let's go.”

Just then, Joe felt something creak beneath him. He looked down to see the floorboards moving. Before he could run to safety or even move an inch, he found himself falling through the floor!

Joe hit the bottom of the five-foot-deep pit with a thud. Phil knelt and stuck his head through the trapdoor. “Joe, what happened? You okay?”

A hand reached up from the shadows and yanked Phil by the collar down into the pit. Joe saw the gleam of the blade of an ivory-handled pocketknife that was being brandished at Phil. As his eyes became accustomed to the light, he also saw the long handle of a Colt .45 revolver in their attacker's other hand.

“Who are you?” the voice asked from the shadows.

“Joe Hardy,” Joe replied.

“Phil Cohen,” his friend said, a tremble in his voice. “Harmless, nonviolent Phil Cohen.”

“Let me guess. You're Henry Low River?” Joe
asked. The man didn't answer. “You're holding the knife that your grandson picked up off the floor in Toby Gill's office, so I'm pretty sure I'm right.”

“What if you are?” the man asked.

“We're not the law,” Joe assured him. “We're just trying to help find out what happened to Toby Gill.”

In one quick movement, the man pushed Phil over to Joe's side of the pit. He folded his pocketknife against his chest and put it away. He kept the gun trained on the two boys.

As the man leaned into the light, Joe got a good look at him. Low River looked younger than Joe had expected, maybe fifty. He had a strong face, with imposing features and wrinkles around the eyes. His hair was long and black with silver strands.

“I'll tell you where Gill is,” Low River said. “He's running. He cruised, the same way he did after he rooked me in Texas.”