Sabotage at Willow Woods (Nancy Drew Diaries #5)(7)

“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 college 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.

Bess looked at the two of us with wide eyes. “Whew, she’s good. Why isn’t she running for office?” she whispered.

George didn’t look quite convinced, though. “Because she lies too much?” she whispered back.

“Of course,” Julia was saying now, picking up her wineglass and settling back in her chair, as if this were just a casual fireside chat, “I’m sure Carrie would consider giving other incentives to drivers. The idea is to raise as much money for the schools as possible. Perhaps we cut down on bus service so more people will drive?”

George cleared her throat. She looked like she’d heard enough of Julia explaining what Carrie did and didn’t believe. “Actually,” she said, “I’m pretty sure Carrie would be against cutting bus service in this town. A lot of people rely on it. Also, didn’t you tell us that you took the bus here tonight?”

Silence fell over the table, so thick and unexpected, it was like we’d all been covered in glue. Julia turned and looked over at the three of us—as if noticing us for the first time—and clearly did not like what she saw. The older man, who hadn’t acknowledged the three of us in any way up to that point, gave George a disapproving look.

Julia pasted on a frozen smile and cleared her throat. “I’m sure you misunderstood my story, George,” she said, before waving a vague hand in our direction. “I love to drive. Anyway, have you met Carrie’s little cousin and her friends, Mr. Driscoll? Sooooo cute, aren’t they? Carrie thought it would be fun to let them come to this dinner and get a little firsthand political education. Of course, they’re all too young to fully understand the ins and outs. . . .” She glanced up, and her eyes shot daggers at George. “George, would you be a dear and go find the waitress? We need a coffee refill.”

George glared at her for a second, but then quickly seemed to remember how much her cousin needed Julia and got up from the table. “Sure thing,” she murmured, before disappearing into the crowd. I turned around and shot Bess a look: Poor George. She nodded as the conversation continued around us, the three of us forgotten.

A few minutes later, while George was still gone, Carrie stepped up to the podium that had been set up on a raised platform along the inner wall of the ballroom. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” she said, and the ballroom erupted in applause. “I wanted to tell you a little bit about how much I love Boylestown— and some of my plans for its future, should I be lucky enough to be elected to the town council.”

Carrie paused and took a breath, and George slipped back to our table and sat down. She shot an annoyed look at Julia, but the campaign manager was already focused on Carrie’s speech, making a video recording with her phone.

“As I was saying,” Carrie went on, “I love this town. When I was just a little girl—”

At that moment, a loud noise came over the sound system—like someone breathing deeply into a microphone. It didn’t line up with what Carrie was doing, though, and that was confusing. I glanced at Bess and George, wondering what we were hearing, when suddenly Carrie’s voice came booming out of the speakers at a much higher volume than her actual speech. “I DON’T CARE WHAT THEY THINK,” the voice, clearly Carrie’s, boomed through the speakers, “AS LONG AS THEY CAN AFFORD A TICKET. ONCE I’M ELECTED, I CAN DO WHAT I WANT. I DON’T HAVE TO LISTEN TO A BUNCH OF RICH OLD FOGEYS!”