Sabotage at Willow Woods (Nancy Drew Diaries #5)

Sabotage at Willow Woods (Nancy Drew Diaries #5)

Carolyn Keene




CHAPTER ONE



The Wrong Message


“OOH, ANOTHER COTTON-CANDY SELLER!” My best friend Bess leaned back and craned her neck, pointing down the sidewalk to a middle-aged man surrounded by wispy puffs of yellow and blue—the Boylestown Raiders colors. We were attending a parade and block party to celebrate Boylestown’s football team winning the state championship. Bess, her cousin George, and I all went to a rival school—River Heights High—so why were we celebrating with the competition? Well, George’s cousin, Carrie Kim, had decided to run for Boylestown’s town council, and she was making her first big speech at the block party. We all wanted to be there to show our support.

“I don’t need another cotton candy,” George, who was my other best friend, muttered with a frown. “I’ll puke.”

Bess turned back and shot George an annoyed glance. Bess is as blonde, curvy, and lively as George is dark, petite, and serious. Over the years, I’ve become very good at refereeing their arguments.

I held up a hand. “Now ladies . . .”

“You don’t need to be such a grump.” Bess frowned at George and looked down the street to where a parade would be starting any minute.

“I’m not being a grump.” George sighed, following Bess’s gaze to where the Boylestown High School band was getting into formation. “I think it’s great that the Boylestown football team won the state championship. And I think it’s great that the town is coming together to give them this parade.”

I cocked an eyebrow. I knew what was coming next. “But . . .”

George looked flustered. “But,” she repeated, shrugging, “I just wish towns like this would pay the same kind of attention to other accomplishments.”

I smiled sympathetically. I knew that George was speaking from her own experience as a nonathlete.

“Non-sports-related accomplishments,” Bess filled in, and then shook her head. I could tell she’d heard this argument before.

One of the drummers in the marching band banged her drum, and we all looked over to see the band members begin marching in place. The parade was starting! The band began playing, and I could feel my heart beating in time with the thump-thump-thump of the drum. What is it about fight songs? They were playing Boylestown High’s, and even though I never went to school there, it still made me want to jump up and down and cheer.

As the band marched past us, I saw George straighten up and begin cheering. I knew my friend was really excited about the football team’s win, deep down. I cheered too, clapping along to the beat of the song. The crowd suddenly erupted in hooting and applause, and I turned to see that the football players themselves were behind the band, each wearing his uniform and carrying his helmet in his hands. Bess stuck her fingers in her mouth and let out her famous Brain-Melting Whistle. George rolled her eyes and rubbed her temples, but notably didn’t tell her cousin to stop.

The Boylestown cheerleaders followed the players, but after them, the parade petered out. A few little kids marched by, waving pompoms or flags, but I had a feeling they were an unofficial addition to the parade. This hunch was proven when a few middle-aged parent-looking types scurried by just seconds after, trying to round up the kids.

“That’s it?” George asked. “The band and the football team?”

“And the cheerleaders,” Bess corrected her, pulling some pink lip gloss out of her pocket and applying a perfectly shiny coat. I couldn’t help being impressed— how did she put it on so perfectly without a mirror? But I knew I shouldn’t have been surprised. Bess was an expert on all things clothing-, makeup-, or style-related. She would have been a total girly-girl, if she weren’t also an amazing mechanic.

George let out a puff of breath and ran a hand through her short, straight black hair. George’s interest in makeup or style ran directly inverse to her cousin’s; she couldn’t care less. What she did care about was technology. It seemed to me that George could do anything with a computer: order up dinner, animate a short film, listen in on a conversation taking place across the world. She was also very concerned with justice and fairness. Which made her incredibly useful to me in following my own passion: catching crooks.

“Come on, guys, let’s get moving,” Bess said, gesturing to the stream of people flowing into the street to follow the parade down to the school grounds, where a block party would soon take place. We moved into the crowd. All around us, I could hear snippets of conversation. I didn’t mean to snoop, exactly—it was just habit.

“—such an amazing team—”

“—really incredible, it’s been twelve years since BHS even made it to state!”

“—I know—they’re heroes!”

At those words, I heard George snort. She turned to face me, and I could tell from her expression that she’d definitely heard the same snippets.

“Heroes?” George asked the willowy redhead who’d used the word. “For getting a ball down a field?”

The girl turned to face George. She was a few inches taller, and peered with large green eyes down her narrow nose at this unexpected interrupter. “It’s not that easy,” the girl retorted with a sniff. “I’d like to see you try it.”