George raised her eyebrows. “B for Boylestown?” she asked.
“A for Association,” Bess suggested.
I looked up. “George, where’s your tablet?”
George grabbed her purse and pulled out the latest addition to her gadget arsenal: a small tablet that she ran her finger across to wake up; then she pulled up her browser. “Let me do a search. . . . Boylestown Association. Hmmm.” She paused while the search engine did its magic, then read the results. “Boylestown Seniors Association.”
“No,” I said, frowning down at the note. “The middle letter definitely isn’t an S.”
“Boylestown Fire Safety Association. Boylestown Stamp Collectors Association?”
Beth groaned. “No to both of those.”
George read the next entry and looked up, crooking an eyebrow. “Boylestown Teachers Association?”
I looked down at the note again. “That’s it! George, go to their home page.”
George bent over her tablet and obeyed. “Here we go,” she said, lifting the tablet to show us the home page of the Boylestown Teachers Association. A round seal dominated—a seal that seemed to match right up with the tiny bit of circle left on the note in my hand.
“So it stands to reason,” I began, “that the person who wrote this note is a teacher at one of the Boylestown schools. And since Carrie is proposing a major change at Boylestown High . . .” I trailed off, but the gleam in Bess’s eye told me that she knew exactly where I was going.
“It makes sense to start there,” she murmured.
Luckily, RHHS had a teachers’ conference the next day, which left me free to begin my snooping. I snuck down into the kitchen while Hannah was dusting the living room, not wanting to answer a bunch of questions about why I was shoving a hastily made peanut butter sandwich into my mouth. Then I grabbed my backpack and jumped into my car, checking my reflection in the mirror. A simple skirt and polo shirt Bess had picked out for me, an artfully messy ponytail: I looked cute enough to blend in, but not cool or noticeable enough to stand out.
I drove quickly to Boylestown High School and parked on a nearby side street. The bell was just ringing for their second lunch period—perfect! Soon the campus was crawling with kids carrying brown paper bags or trays laden with franks and beans, all looking for a place to eat. The school was pleasantly chaotic. Nobody would notice a girl who maybe, if you were really thinking about it, didn’t belong.
I walked confidently into the main building, smiling at any kids I passed, like I was just one of them. Most kids smiled back. Nobody asked who I was. I was able to make my way easily down to the basement level, past the cafeteria to the room I was seeking—which was exactly where the map I’d found online had said it would be.
A thick metal door, painted green, held a small window that had been papered over so you couldn’t see inside. Typical, I thought. I raised my hand and made a few sharp knocks, my knuckles bumping against the C in TEACHERS’ LOUNGE.
The door finally swung open to reveal a tall man with longish sideburns and a shaggy mustache. He peered down at me through too-thick glasses, looking instantly annoyed. “This is the teachers’ lounge. It’s private. No students!” he barked, then pulled back his arm to close the door in my face.
“But wait!” I said, holding up my hand in the universal please stop! gesture. “I know the teachers’ lounge is private. It’s just that I found this lighter right outside the door here—I figured it must belong to someone inside?”
I reached into my pocket and pulled out a small butane lighter I’d bought at the drugstore a few hours earlier. I’d been careful to buy a gender-neutral color: green.
The man frowned, peering down at the lighter. “Hold on.” He closed the door again, briefly, while I could hear him talking to the other teachers inside. “You sure? Okay.” He opened the door and shrugged at me. “I don’t know whose that is. It doesn’t belong to any of the teachers in here.”
I put on my best oh gosh face. “Oh, that’s too bad. I’d really like to return it. Do you know any teachers here who smoke?”
The man sighed, as if he were getting tired of this distraction from his rare “me” time. “Which teachers here smoke? Well, there aren’t many. It’s bad for you, you know that, right?”
I nodded solemnly. Oh, I knew. In fact, my dad had found that it was much easier to quit smoking than to put up with my constant nagging. Win for Nancy Drew!
The man shook his head. “There’s . . . uh . . . Ms. Kashen, she still smokes. And Ms. Meyerhoff. You could try them.”
“Thanks,” I said cheerfully, but barely got the th sound out before the door was closed in my face again.
I slipped the lighter back into my pocket and strolled off, up a flight of stairs. Ms. Kashen and Ms. Meyerhoff. I’d have to play dumb when the bell rang again, tell some passing students that I was new and needed to find their classrooms. Of course, I could explore a bit now, see if I happened by them. . . .
As I walked down the hall, I wondered what either of these teachers could possibly get from sending a threatening note to Carrie. Maybe they didn’t support her ideas to improve the school, but why threaten her? These were adults, not naive kids. Wouldn’t it make more sense to simply not vote for her, or better yet, campaign for one of her opponents? Sending a threatening note was personal. It said, Not only do I not like your politics, but I’m afraid of what will happen should you win. But what about Carrie was that threatening? Even a new sports arena was just a new sports arena, not something that could really hurt anyone. . . .
As I reached the end of the hallway, loud chanting broke through the usual lunchtime din: “NO NEW ARENA! NO NEW ARENA!” It was coming from a hallway off to the right. Seriously? It’s like they knew I was coming! I scrambled to follow it.
I ended up back in the BHS lobby. Big trophy cases lined the walls, and a mosaic of the BHS Raiders’ logo was laid into the floor. In the middle of the lobby, about twenty kids were marching around in a circle, holding signs that said no NEW SPORTS ARENA! and WE WON’T TRADE TREES FOR TROPHIES!
I moved closer. These kids seem pretty opposed to Carrie’s idea. . . . What is this?
“Hey.” A tall, skinny boy with a messy mop of black hair and a nose ring pressed a flyer into my hand. “Take one of these. Read up! The future of your school depends on it.”
I scanned the flyer.
. . . but when examined more closely, Carrie Kim’s proposal has many areas for concern. Willow Woods, which would be reduced by half to accommodate the new football field, has been undisturbed for more than one hundred years, and it contains plant and animal species that can’t be found anywhere else within thirty miles. . . .
Suddenly I became aware of a shadow looking over me. I looked up and saw the same boy watching me with interest. “It’s pretty upsetting, right?” he asked in a much gentler voice than he’d used before.
I nodded, looking down at the paper. “I—I guess I didn’t realize the forest was going to be cut down to build the new football field and sports complex,” I said honestly. The truth was, all the information in the flyer came as a surprise. I knew that not everybody in Boylestown would support having so much money being funneled into athletics when it could go toward other things. But I hadn’t realized there would be environmental concerns.
The boy nodded fervently. “Most people don’t!” he said. “People worship sports in this town. It’s like nothing else matters. But there’s no reason we have to destroy the environment to give something else to a bunch of already entitled jocks.”
Already entitled jocks. Okay, clearly this boy had a few issue with athletes. Keep that in mind. I looked up to meet his pale-green eyes. “Do you think Carrie Kim knows all this?” I asked, waving the flyer. “I know she was an athlete in high school, but . . . maybe she’d change her proposal if she knew it would be so damaging to Willow Woods.”
The boy snorted, then seemed to take in my surprised reaction and shook his head. “Sorry, I don?
??t mean to be rude. But I can guarantee you: Carrie Kim only cares about getting elected. All politicians do, when it really comes down to it. That’s why it’s on the people to stand up for issues we really care about.”
I glanced down at the flyer again, pretending to read over a section about the history of Willow Woods, but really just buying some time to think this over. Could the mystery note writer be involved with these environmentalist protesters? Was that enough of a reason to threaten someone—worrying that they would do damage to the environment?
I looked up at the boy and gave him a warm smile. “I’m Katrina, by the way.” Years of snooping around to catch crooks had given me a lightning-fast ability to make up fake names.
He nodded, smiling back and holding out his hand. “Barney.”
“That’s a nice name,” I said. Actually it made me think of a big purple dinosaur. But the Barney I’d grown up watching on TV had little in common with this serious, slight, pale-skinned boy.
“Besides”—Barney leaned toward me, lowering his voice like he was about to let me in on a big secret— “she’s one of them. She was this huge tennis champ in high school, you know? She was all over the papers. One whole shelf of the trophies over there are hers,” he said, nodding to the case. He stood up straight. “Carrie Kim thinks athletics are the answer to everything. They made her life awesome, right? But she doesn’t realize that sports actually make some people’s lives miserable.” He looked down at me, his eyes raw with honesty.
I cleared my throat. “Right,” I said, riffing off his comments. “I feel like I always have to feel bad about not being good at running, or shooting a ball through a hoop. But do they ever feel bad about not being good at painting? Or gardening?”
The boy nodded. “Exactly. Athletes already get everything they want! This is just one more thing.”
Barney put a hand on his hip. “So—are you interested in getting more involved, Katrina? We’re going to need all the help we can get to mount an effective campaign against Carrie Kim and her big, sports-loving, election-winning idea. And I don’t want to get too woe-is-me here, but as a fellow student, I’m sure you know that athletes will always have more power at BHS than the little guy. If they want this new sports complex—well, we’re going to have to work really hard to defeat it. Think outside the box a little. Maybe get our hands dirty.”
Think outside the box. Get our hands dirty. Each of Barney’s words got my little justice-loving inner PI thrumming with enthusiasm. Even if Barney wasn’t directly connected to the note Carrie had been passed, I had a feeling I could still learn about a lot of shady activities done in the name of green living. “I’m in,” I said, taking his hand and giving it a good shake. Barney winced and pulled away, but smiled at me just the same.
“That’s great!” he said, looking like he really meant it.
“So what’s the next step?” I asked, holding up the flyer. “Who do I talk to? I’m ready to get my hands dirty!”
“Read the flyer. Think about it. If the ideas resonate with you, then you can start by joining the Green Club,” Barney said, grabbing my flyer and writing something on the bottom. “Room 238. You’ll need to talk to our faculty sponsor.”
“And that is?” I asked, taking the flyer back from him and squinting at the room number.
Barney smiled. “Ms. Meyerhoff,” he said. “I hope I see you at our next meeting, Katrina.”
CHAPTER THREE
Caught on Tape
AS I WAS WALKING BACK to my car, I got a series of texts from George explaining that Carrie had invited us to fill three unsold seats at a big fund-raising dinner she was throwing that night. The other attendees would be rich potential donors to her campaign, so the event would be very fancy. WE CAN’T SAY NO, George’s last text said.
Well. Who was I to argue?
That night I pulled up to the Boylestown Yacht Club at precisely five thirty, as George’s e-mail had instructed. Already the parking lot was buzzing with activity, with well-dressed people climbing out of cars and limos and walking a red carpet to get inside. I watched curiously, smoothing my own simple green dress over my knees. I hadn’t been to many fancy fund-raising dinners in my short life, and despite Bess’s fashion advice, I wasn’t totally convinced I’d dressed the part.
I was pulled from my worries by a sharp rap on my passenger window. It was Bess—expertly made up and wearing a fashionable black cocktail dress, of course. I clicked the unlock button on my door and gestured for her to get into the car. George was right behind her, wearing a red skirt and striped shell, and she pulled open the back door and climbed in.
“You look nice,” George observed mildly.
“Do I?” I fingered my hair, which I’d halfheartedly styled with a curling iron. “I’m watching all these people go in and feeling only about thirty percent as fancy as I should be to attend this party.”
“Oh, come on, Nance.” Bess reached over and pinched me. “You look great. And hey, your name even rhymes with ‘fancy.’ ”
“Fancy Nancy!” George said, delighted. “Like the picture books!”
I groaned. “Never call me that again, please.”
“I’m going to call you that every day.”
“Can we talk about something else?” I reached into the small purse I’d brought and pulled out the flyer Barney had given me, now folded and creased from multiple readings. I handed it to George. “For example: I think I have a lead on the mystery note writer.”
“A lead?” George asked, unfolding the flyer and burying her nose in it.
“Did you go to the school today?” Bess asked. Before they’d left the day before, I’d gone over my plan with my friends. “At lunch?”
“I did,” I replied as George flipped over the flyer, making murmuring noises of approval. “And I stumbled onto a protest run by this environmental club, the BHS Green Club, which is already strongly opposed to Carrie’s plans for a new sports complex and football field.”
“For good reason, it sounds like,” George added, finishing up the flyer and passing it forward to Bess. “I had no idea Carrie’s plan called for those woods to be half destroyed. In addition to prioritizing sports above anything else, it sounds like this new complex is going to wreak all kinds of environmental havoc.”
Bess was reading the flyer now, her brow creased. “I’m sure Carrie doesn’t know how damaging this would be,” she said, the corners of her mouth turning down. “She may love athletics, but she’d never want to damage the environment this way. Maybe there’s a work-around?”
“Maybe.” I shrugged. “But for right now, my main suspect is one Ms. Meyerhoff—faculty sponsor of the Green Club, and one of the two teachers at BHS who smokes.”
“You think Ms. Meyerhoff wrote the note?” George asked, incredulous. “Marina Meyerhoff? Nance, have you heard of the Boylestown Shakespeare in the Park program?”
“Yeah,” I said, catching George’s eye in the rearview mirror. Where was she going with this?
“She runs it,” George said. “She won, like, state Teacher of the Year a few years ago. It was all over the local news. She’s possibly the most beloved teacher at BHS. Carrie still talks about her poetry lectures.”
I frowned at George. “Okay. So she’s beloved. Does that mean she could never, ever do anything wrong?”
George pursed her lips but remained silent. So did Bess, folding the flyer carefully back up and handing it to me. Our experience catching crooks together over the years had taught us all that criminals rarely look how you expect them to look. All it takes is for a seemingly normal person to make one dumb, rash decision, and boom—criminal.
“Anyway, I don’t know for sure yet,” I went on, slipping the flyer back into my purse. “It’s just a lead. I’ll keep digging.”
“Thanks, Nancy,” George said with a sigh. “It sounds like Carrie can use all the help she can get. Now, shall we walk the red carpet?”
“Oh, I totally agree,” Julia Jacobs, Carrie’s old co
llege roommate, and campaign manager, said with an emphatic nod to the seventysomething Southern-twanged gentleman who sat across the table from us. “Driving your car is an unassailable American right!”
The man nodded emphatically. “As a former oil man, it always disturbs me when towns try to cut down on the rights of drivers. I should be able to drive my car downtown and park it with no hassles!”
They were discussing an issue that was fairly controversial in Boylestown: installing parking meters in the downtown area and putting all proceeds toward the struggling schools.
George pushed a long, green-stemmed baby carrot around her plate and nudged my elbow. “Julia doesn’t actually know how to drive,” she whispered. “She grew up in Brooklyn. She takes the bus everywhere and thinks everyone should do the same.”
I watched in amazement as Julia continued her conversation with the old man, still agreeing that yes, parking meters are big-city foolishness, that part of being an American was being a little in love with your car. Julia worked for a big midwestern PR firm. The way George described it, she was pretty hot stuff, and Carrie was lucky her old friend was willing to take a leave of absence from work to run her local campaign. “Carrie’s for the parking meters,” George whispered. “Like, hugely, one hundred percent for the parking meters.”
That’s when something amazing happened. Julia tilted her head to the side, as if something had just occurred to her, and said, “Although . . . there is another way to look at it.” I glanced at George, and Bess on her other side, and raised my eyebrows. As we listened, Julia seamlessly laid out the ideas behind Carrie’s feelings on the importance of education, and how children are the future, and really, would having to pay fifty or seventy-five cents to park really dissuade people from driving? All the while, she studiously avoided contradicting the old man in any way, or implying that he had said anything wrong. By the end of her speech, the man was nodding vigorously, saying “Oh, yes,” like the parking meter plan was obviously the right choice.