Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
Joe recognized the gleam in his brother's eyes.
"Stand back," Joe said with a grin. "You're about to see my brother's famous brain go into action."
It took just under a minute for Frank to nod to himself.
"I think I've got it," he said, and the others leaned forward. "Callie picked up the black book at City Hall yesterday just about the time that the city manager committed suicide. And Lisa came into town to investigate any scandal that might surround that suicide. Somebody out there doesn't want his connection to the suicide known."
Lisa nodded. "That makes sense."
Joe said, "Now you see how Frank and I operate. He's the brains, I'm the muscles."
"All the way up to and including your head," Callie said. The show that Joe was putting on for Lisa's benefit was simply too much.
"Come on you two," said Frank. "We've got better ways to spend our time right now." Then he asked Lisa, "Did anyone know you were in town to investigate the suicide?"
"I don't think so," she began, then stopped herself and said, "Yes. I did stop by police headquarters to see if there were any new developments, and I told them I was working on an article."
"Then somebody in the police department could have . . ." Frank let his voice trail off, not wanting to complete the thought out loud.
But Lisa didn't hesitate. "If we are on to a case of civic corruption, some of the members of the police force might be involved." She bit her lip. "That means we'll have to conduct this investigation on our own. We can't afford to risk a leak to our mugger."
"Lisa's right," said Joe. "Anyway, Chief Collig would never buy a story like ours, especially since we don't have any hard evidence."
"Yeah," said Frank. "Too bad Riley's away. He would be helpful. But are we agreed that once we do get hard evidence, we turn it over to the authorities?"
The other three nodded.
"The only trouble now is that we can't ask the police for any news about the suicide," said Callie. Then she said, "But we do have one good source of information."
"Who's that?" asked Lisa.
"Liz," said Callie. "Liz Webling. Her father is the editor of the Bayport Times. She works there after school, and she always gets the latest news before it's printed."
"But can you trust her to keep quiet?" Lisa asked.
"She's my best friend," said Callie. "All I have to do is explain the situation. She'll be glad to help. I'll give her a call right now."
"I don't know about this," said Joe after Callie crossed the room to make the call. "You know how some girls like to talk. Can we really trust Liz?"
"Trust Callie," said Frank quietly, and everyone fell silent, waiting for her to return.
When Callie turned around to return to them a few minutes later, a worried look crossed Frank's face. "She looks like she found something out— and I think it wasn't good."
"What happened?" asked Lisa when Callie sat down again. "You look like you saw a ghost."
"I heard something more scary than that," said Callie. She took a sip of her drink before continuing. "It seems the cause of Jack Morrison's death has been changed. They did aft autopsy, which everyone thought was going to be routine, considering the bullet wound in his head. But a lab assistant noticed a tiny puncture mark on the arm. When they checked it out, they discovered traces of poison. A poison that kills instantly. After more lab tests, the coroner realized that Morrison must have already been dead when the bullet entered him. Jack Morrison's death wasn't a suicide. Someone poisoned him, then staged the suicide."
"But who could have managed to sneak in and out of Mr. Morrison's office in broad daylight?" asked Lisa.
"Well, there's more," Callie said, looking paler than ever. "Morrison's secretary said that the last person who entered and left Morrison's office that day was a mailman — a mailman carrying a registered envelope, which required Morrison's signature." Callie swallowed before continuing. "The mailman had a beard."
"The mailman you bumped into," said Frank.
"The mailman who had the black book," said Joe.
"The mugger who's after us," said Lisa.
"No. He's not just a mugger anymore," said Callie. Despite herself, her voice trembled. "The killer who's after us."
THIS TIME CALLIE didn't protest when Frank suggested she needed protection.
"I may be independent—but I'm not stupid," she said. "With a killer shadowing me, I'll take any help I can get, from man, woman, or child." She grinned. "Even from Joe."
"Too bad, Callie, you're out of luck," said Joe. "Lisa needs protection, too."
Lisa flashed him a warm smile. "Thanks, Joe. I didn't want to ask. But I will feel safer with you around."
"I guess I'll have to settle for what's left," Callie said, smiling at Frank. "Think you can handle it?" she asked.
"No sweat." Frank grinned back.
Then he grew serious. "Now that we've got that settled, there's still one little problem." He paused and shook his head. "Without the black book, and without knowing anything about who the killer is, what do we do now?"
"I know what I'm going to do," said Lisa. "Just what I planned — investigate possible city government corruption." She smiled. "A murder makes the story that much more juicy."
"It also makes it that much more dangerous," said Joe. "I'm sticking close to you."
"As close as you want." Lisa grinned.
"Maybe that's the best way," said Frank to himself.
"The best way to do what?" asked Callie. She could practically hear the wheels spinning in Frank's head.
"Maybe investigating possible corruption is the best way to get a lead on the killer." Frank nodded thoughtfully. "If anybody was up to no good and Morrison got wind of it, they'd want to get rid of him. It's worth checking out."
"Then the sooner I get started, the better," said Lisa. She turned to Callie. "Maybe you can help me take the first step."
"Of course," said Callie. "What can I do?"
"You said a friend of yoars, Liz, works for the local newspaper," said Lisa. "I'd like to check their back-issue file."
"What are you looking for?" asked Frank. He was gaining more and more respect for Lisa. I'll trust Joe's instincts next time, he told himself.
"Civic corruption means money," Lisa said. "Money that the city pays out to get work done. I want to check the contracts the city awarded over the past year or so. Maybe I can spot something that looks suspicious. Then I can go check those companies."
Callie was already on her feet. "I'll call Liz right now."
A few minutes later she was back. "Liz is glad to help," Callie reported. "We can meet her at the newspaper in ten minutes."
"Let's go," said Joe. "The van's parked right outside."
Liz was waiting for them at the reception desk when they arrived at the Bayport Times office.
When Frank asked her to keep their investigation absolutely confidential, she said impatiently, "Don't worry. I'm a reporter. I know how to keep a secret."
The day's final edition had already been printed and loaded into the delivery trucks. Only a skeleton staff was in the office. Nobody even looked up as Liz led them to the newspaper morgue, the room where back issues were filed.
"You can go through the actual issues, if you want to divide the work. We also have microfilm, but there's only one machine. Before you start, I'll give you some news you won't find here," Liz said. "It'll be in tomorrow's paper."
"What's that?" asked Callie.
"It turns out that Jack Morrison was being secretly investigated for accepting bribes," said Liz. "That's why the police never suspected that his death wasn't a suicide. They figured he had found out that the net was closing in and he didn't want to face the music."
"That also could mean that somebody else found out—and silenced Morrison before he could talk," said Frank.
Liz nodded. "And right now the only clue to that person's identity is a very convincing mailman disguise."
"Let's get at those back issues," said Lisa. "I smell a story. Where do you list city contract awards, Liz?"
"On the back pages — most readers aren't Very interested in them," said Liz. "That's been one of my assignments this past year—going down to City Hall for that information. It's the kind of boring job that nobody else wants. Oh, well, I have to start someplace."
"You might save us some time," said Frank. "Were any big contracts handed out lately?"
"There have been so many, and it's such a routine process. It's hard to think of any that stand out," said Liz, her brows knitting. Then she said, "But I do remember one — maybe because it affected me directly."
"Which one?" asked Callie.
"The food-catering contract for Bayport High School," said Liz. "It was awarded just last summer, to start this fall term."
"So that's why," said Callie, grimacing.
"Why—what?" asked Lisa.
"Why the food in the cafeteria has been the way it is," said Callie.
"Which is?" Lisa persisted.
"Let's just say that if I fed it to my dog, he'd stop being my best friend fast," she answered. "The only kids in school who like it are the girls on diets. One bite and you not only stop eating, your appetite is killed for hours."
"Yeah," Joe added with a grin. "Even Chet Morton won't go back for seconds."
"Sounds like the kind of thing we're after," said Lisa. "What's the name of the outfit?"
Liz had flipped through the files to find it. "Eat-Right, Inc. Five ninety-seven Elm Street."
"The rest of you can hunt for other contracts while I check this one out," said Lisa.
"Good idea. A team effort," said Frank.
"Yeah, you three do that," said Joe, "while Lisa and I handle Eat-Right."
"You and Lisa?" asked Frank.
"No way she goes to that place alone," said Joe. "If they're capable of doing what they do to food, who knows what they might do to people?"
"Your coming along is a great idea, Joe," Lisa added. "I have the perfect plan: We'll pretend we're reporters from the high school paper, doing a story on the new catering company."
Joe nodded enthusiastically. "Come on, Lisa. We better hurry. They'll close by five-thirty or six."
Fifteen minutes later, when they pulled up in front of the Bayport Inn, Lisa said, "Wait for me in the lobby. I'll be down in a half-hour."
Lisa was better than her word. TWenty-five minutes later she stepped out of an elevator.
But it took Joe two minutes to recognize her.
Her hair was black with purple streaks, and it looked even shorter than it had before. She wore an oversize black cotton sweatsuit and high-top black aerobic sneakers. Her eyelids were caked with green eyeshadow. Lisa looked about seven-teen years old.
"How did you do it?" asked Joe. "I thought you were a reporter, not an actress."
"Sometimes I have to be both," explained Lisa. "I used this wig and outfit when I did a story about bars and clubs serving liquor to minors. Sometimes people tell teenagers things they won't tell adults. How about it? Do you think I look like a real reporter from Bayport High?"
"You could fool me," said Joe. "Of course, you don't look that old to begin with."
"Funny, I think the same thing about you, but in reverse," said Lisa. "I mean, it's hard to think of you as a teenager. You seem so grownup."
Her eyes met his. Joe felt warm, as if the heat had suddenly gone up in the hotel lobby.
Then Lisa's cool voice brought him back to the business at hand. "But we both have to be teenagers now. Two kids from the high school paper doing a story on the nice folks who provide those delicious cafeteria lunches."
Eat-Right, Inc. was housed in a grimy, factory-like building down the street from the town in-cinerator. The odor of refuse hung in the air.
"Yuck," said Joe, his nose wrinkling. "Now I know where they get the garbage they serve at school."
They stood in front of a door with a sign that read: "Welcome to the Offices of Eat-Right, Inc. A Name That Guarantees Dining Delight."
"Let's check it out," said Lisa, opening the door. Joe was close behind her, alert for any sign of trouble.
Eat-Right, Inc. certainly seemed like a legitimate business. When Lisa explained why they were there, the receptionist flashed them a warm smile, picked up her phone, and relayed the information to the person at the other end. Then she nodded, hung up, and said in a smooth voice, "Mr. Smith of public relations hasn't left for the day yet. He has a few minutes and will be out to answer your questions. Maybe next time it would be better to make an appointment. But please do sit down and make yourselves comfortable as long as you're here."
Lisa and Joe sat down in soft leather chairs in the tastefully decorated reception room. Joe picked up one of the gourmet magazines arranged on a table and thumbed through it. He had just started an article entitled "TWenty Ways to Stuff a Lobster" when Mr. Smith appeared.
Mr. Smith was a pleasant-looking man in his thirties. He wore a gray three-piece suit, highly polished black shoes, a striped tie, and a spotless white shirt.
"Always glad to help young people," he assured Lisa and Joe. "This is a splendid idea, doing an article on our company. The way we prepare food here will give students valuable insights into the latest advances in nutrition and preparation. Real food for thought." He chuckled and repeated, "Food for thought. A little joke."
Real little, thought Joe, forcing himself to chuckle when he saw Lisa doing it. He definitely had to respect her. She was a pro.
Still smiling, Mr. Smith led them through a door, down a corridor, and into a fully equipped laboratory. A tall man in a white lab coat looked up from a microscope when they entered.
"This is Dr. Purvis," said Mr. Smith. "The doctor checks food samples and does nutritional research to upgrade our menus. Right, doctor?"
"That's right," said Dr. Purvis. "Let me show you something I think you'll find interesting." He lead them to a cage filled with white mice. "A few weeks ago these mice were practically dead. Now see how healthy and active they've become—just by improving their diet."